


Mistakes on Mistakes Until—

by jabberish



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Decepticon!Jazz, Defection, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Indulgent terror, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 157,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23609623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jabberish/pseuds/jabberish
Summary: Ricochet's got a bad case of conscience and he's pretty sure it's about to get him killed.(aka I think I've read every defection/ex-Con au and now I'm forced to make my own. Jazz-centric.)
Relationships: (eventually), Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 1160
Kudos: 416





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> there is a [playlist (on spotify)](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2prcqdbZRAN92UkyS8Nrwk)

Prowl does not recognize his interrogator. A mech in mostly matte black with some red detailing, smaller than average for his light vehicle frametype. He moves near silently, face exposed but utterly expressionless, and lets the larger mech flanking (security, heavily and obviously armed) open and shut the door behind him.

The heavily armored security mech in chipped purple and grey pings positive for one Barrrow, infantry, 88% chance of being stationed in this quadrant. Prowl dutifully marks that up to 99 and queues a model update. A deeper dive into compressed memory and downloaded profiles yields a flood of partial matches on the interrogator. He has a very common frametype, but that matte coloration should be more identifying. Prowl narrows his search and checks through best matches (dead, recently spotted systems away, dead, dead, stationed elsewhere) and concludes he is getting a stranger.

Prowl has been sitting perfectly still for the six joor they have had him in interrogation and he is hardly about to break that now. He judges 85% they have left him to sit in an attempt to unsettle him prior to interrogation. It gives him some grim satisfaction to at least deny them that. Externally he gives no reaction.

Internally, he runs some probabilities. Unflappable front aside, he is in an objectively bad situation and grasping at whatever information he can get. Unknown interrogator.

A secret operative, witnessed only by mechs offlined before they could bring an image and designation back to the Autobots. Implication of high skill to match Prowl's well-known high security, cross the generally poor state of intelligence, over the serious gaps that would be required for such a thing — 45%.

An ordinary interrogation specialist, too young or too quiet to have made any waves. Broadly likely, complicated by the relative rarity of someone with any chance of getting anything out of Prowl, not exclusive of other scenarios — 33%.

A sacrifice, a pawn to take the brunt of the inevitable countermeasures embedded in Prowl's security protocols, here to get destroyed and then have the remains of his processors looked over to plan a better attack. Given the last known state of intrafactional politics, viability of technical success, estimated time to rescue operation — 90%. 

90%, and a foolish action. Even were he not fully capable of keeping a modestly skilled mnemoscraper out of his cortex without leaving any marks, he would never be so clumsy as to leave a trail that would show the shape of his defenses. It is more than a cruel use of a subordinate, it is wasteful.

Prowl offers his arm before the interrogator can ask, centering the port on the inside of his second joint over the massive table between them. The action is rendered somewhat inelegant by the cuffs linking his arms to each other and the ludicrously heavy duty chain anchoring him to the floor between his pedes. 

Security (Barrow) draws his blaster to ready at the sudden movement. The interrogator does not so much as twitch, though he does look between Prowl and his extended arm for a moment. He makes only brief optic contact and nods slightly before sitting down opposite Prowl and procuring a cable running in and out of a bulky box. It looks custom made (30%) or re-wrapped in a generic box to obscure the particulars of the model (67%).

The mech sorts and clips wires with a steady precision, like he knows exactly what he is doing but is in no particular rush to do it (80%), and perhaps is hoping for an additional psychological edge over his victim (40%).

Prowl has no resentment over the extra time spent. He is in an outpost on GHX-9, well within reach of Autobot forces, and has himself outlined theoretical raid plans for situations similar to this. As long as he can stay intact for three more days, he anticipates rescue. Extraction within two days and six joor, more precisely. So far, he has not seen anything (floor numbering past 4, a smelter, or structural corrosion) that would severely impact his risk rating of the outpost.

The blank slate is irritating. "What is your designation?" Prowl asks.

The other mech pauses, clamp jammed deep into the wires of his own wrist. Then he resumes as if he hadn't heard.

He could be a somewhat uncanny make of drone (20%, but climbing). The types of data scraping that could be preset into a drone make the possibility tactically fascinating. It would take some significant skill, not to mention an irresponsible misuse of machining talent, to make such a simulacrum but it would allow for nearly free iteration of hacking techniques with little risk to the creator.

Prowl barely minds when the interrogator strips the insulation from the relays around his port, dismissing the pain impatiently. He moves like a drone, confidently selecting the correct wires from Prowl's arm with something bordering on medical professionalism. It would be so much work to program that, but sections could likely be taken from extant medical programs. 

His interrogator finally clips all the way in and the connection flares to life.

Connection requests flood Prowl's systems. Firewalls ready and up, he refuses them all unread.

After a standard nanoklik pause, a secondary set of requests refreshes on top of the first.

For lack of anything better to do, Prowl reads them. Pings for status, identifiers, requests to connect. It is somewhat confusing. He is hardwired into a specialized box. Typical handshake protocols, like the ones he is seeing, should actually be more difficult to create and pass across. If this is a joke, it is brilliant. If it is an interrogation method, it is...of unclear benefit.

Prowl can feel a broad presence at the periphery of his systems, an intruder lurking just outside the walls. He does not like it.

More pings flood in, just as polite and useless as the ones before.

Prowl automates his dismissal. The last time he did that, he had been too forceful attempting to disconnect from a medical scan and bent the jack. The scanner had run on a confused loop of connection requests until Ratchet had found the smallest pair of pliers Prowl had ever seen.

The presence on the other end of line flicks across briefly. Prowl is aware, in that odd processor-to-processor blur, of a log taken, and then the mech is gone.

Prowl watches a count of dismissed connection requests tick up for a klik.

He can feel the interrogator doing something. Were he fully in his own processor, it should not bleed through — the box has one basic job and all of Prowl's overpowered processing does not change that. He is working on something in the space between them and Prowl does not know what he is doing.

Prowl plucks out a connection request with a relatively simple structure and inspects it for traps. Carefully, he snags some threads of their connection, forces them backwards, and sends out his own connection into the box.

He accepts the request and establishes a limited true connection.

As soon as he connects, Prowl reflexively flinches back from the _sheer chaos_. 

A handful — a dozen — a hundred? — fluidly partitioned processes are flickering in parallel in interleaved prioritization and dependency and abruptly snapping in and out of existence and for every mnemoscraping program there are two layered threads of high density sensory data in a rippling torrent. It is _loud_. There is _music_ playing.

The Decepticon is not a drone. Prowl reorients in his connection, moving just a little more carefully against the mech. There is someone on the other end of the line, whirling rapidly through some task or another. He is keeping almost entirely to the box itself or to his own processor, so Prowl can not make out exactly what is happening.

Whoever designed the box made a serious oversight, and it is scarcely protected from his observation. Prowl processes logs and scrabbling bits of code as they load and copy and scan across a dozen subprocesses.

His impression that there is involved mnemoscraping and infiltration programming running here was correct. Furthermore, the interrogator has actually gotten more than Prowl had realized, a rough map of his outermost architecture. It is almost enough to be alarmed. Except.

 _You are faking an adverse encounter with my defenses,_ Prowl remarks.

As soon as they are aware of each other, the active interface between them dilates of its own accord, base-level coding in both their processing pummeling the connection into something near intuitive. The configuration of the link throttles Prowl's usual defenses. The Decepticon is halfway through a vicious self-mutilation, jamming his own firewalls and protocols. It puts them on near even ground.

The Con is unable to hide bright surprise, lined with a fine thread of panic. Prowl puts himself 20% better positioned in the encounter.

 _Ah slag! You — wait what the — Hello, frag — What the frag? Wow the confidence on you, mech! My kinda — Did he seriously just accept that connection? Is that even safe — ooh, no that’s_ neat _— surprised me. No he didn't — this is alright this is alright hey wanna punch me in the face I need someone to punch me in the firewalls._

_Anyhow, just sit tight a sec, ‘kay?_

The storm of activity writhes and redirects. This Con is bubbling over with chaotic branches of reasoning and fractal cascades of free association, bleeding through the connection. It is actually somewhat overwhelming.

 _Quit that_ , Prowl says.

 _Quit — what, thinking — yeah actually please c'mon c'mon get your thoughts together — quit hitting yourself quit hitting yourself? probs the first thing, but that's not the worst idea trapped in a room with a — c'mon put that back up that's a bad vulnerability —_

And Prowl can see the bad vulnerability, as soon as he thinks of it, a disabled access protection with admin permissions on a central verification file — the Con is destroying his own defenses, after all. He lunges for it.

The Con gets to it first and freezes it before Prowl can exploit it — _slag slag slag — fix without thinking no thinking everything is going great slaggin great — fragging_ why _are you over here?_

It was a good call. He wanted more information, and he is getting it. _This is atypical methodology._

Prowl feels-sees-hears the mech scoff. _Come here often do ya — yeah so I'm here to get destroyed by your firewalls so that the boss can use the sparking scraps of my processor to figure out a real bypass but slag that noise amirite — that's treason eh treasonish what's a stray treasonish thought between enemies — don't think don't think don't think fix the gaps without thinking._

There is a rapid scramble as they both move to protect, freeze, or overwrite any unsecured bits of processor.

 _You can't quite lie here — gotta be able to lie — gonna be fine._ The Con groans, something that should be full body and expressive, and a disconnect jars at Prowl's processing. 

Back in the outside world, the black interrogator is still sitting perfectly still in front of him, expression drone-like. Prowl immediately offlines his optics for focus. The box, their linkage, is an aggressive configuration, leaving them both scrambling to hide bleeding thoughts and get to something like safety.

Why is the Con scrambling so much? He has, Prowl realizes, something he wants very badly to hide, and the moment he knows, the Con knows he knows, and knows he's looking, looking for — the thought starts to bubble out.

The Con activates an aggressive stop from the box, shoving at Prowl's presence.

 _Pit, get out! You rust filled scrap pile I'm hacking_ you _you leave me alone._

But Prowl has had enough time to tamper and dismisses the box's attempts to classify his presence as an intrusion. Advantage is his 25% and climbing. The Con is better than the modestly skilled interrogator Prowl calculated for, but—

 _Not as good as you. Frag — whatever mech leave me alone you don't gotta bother me you don't gotta do anything but wait it out mandatory vacation time you gonna be out in a bit, right?_

Abruptly Prowl recalls that the thought leakage goes both ways, but he is pretty sure he hasn’t, he isn’t—

 _Naw you been flawless that's mine._

The image of himself offering up his cables presses through the connection — the image of an enemy, taller, higher ranked, no business being anywhere near, hand extended for interrogation like he's bored — _that's a mech with an escape route — or a good liar — yeah but that's their TacOps second they'll be back for him._

It's disorienting seeing himself through the Con's mind, two feeds of memory overlaying themselves and grating against his senses.

 _Yeah they're gonna get you back, pit, they'll let mechs die to get you back, won't they —_  
they would — but, and —  
_and it'll be worth it, especially_ if they can do it before the third cycle is out — _that mission is going to fall apart without you to coordinate._

It is buried securely in his trees, Prowl is not thinking about — _a neutral ship, Autobot sympathetic, damaged and awaiting a slow rescue in a sector with Decepticon response time cycles ahead of the best they can do —_

All at once, Prowl claws through the other mech's processor with fully armed assault software, onlines his optics, and lunges forward.

The interrogator is smaller, throat at minus twelve degrees, if he can grab hold he can smash his helm against the table, 72% chance of damaging the processor enough to at least delay communication — follow up with a —

He does not even brush the Con's plating. The black mech twists and skitters backwards quickly (faster than any analytic class is specced for) clearing enough space with enough force to rip the cable connectors apart.

A single spark pops as the connection breaks and errors cascade through Prowl's carefully balanced processor. He needs to kill that Con. Nothing personal, purely tactical. Lives depend on that information — the breakout, the neutral ship — they're stranded and the Cons are closer gotta get to them. 

The Con is twitching, stumbling to his feet on the far wall, jerky from the hard disconnect but Prowl is worse off, his frame is not responding properly and then Barrow smacks him down with the butt of his rifle and it is too late but it was too late the moment the Con made it out of Prowl's reach.

He cannot tell if the Con saw the attack coming from the interface or if he just recognized the inevitable reaction to the situation. Unable to move, unable to do anything productive, Prowl snarls in the general direction of his interrogator. 95% the latter. He is good.

"Barrow! Don't shoot 'im! D-Don't shot. Shoot. We're good, yeah?" the Con's voice is cut with static and he has none of the calm grace he'd had on entering, but he does have a lopsided grin.

Per interrogation room standard, Prowl is between the interrogator and the door. It positions him unable to see the door for psychological and security reasons. The chains give the Cons plenty of safe space to get by but Prowl has to try anyway. As the interrogator bobs for the door Prowl twists and shoves his chair at full force and it makes a satisfying crash against the wall but the interrogator has hopped free and is at the door already. 

Barrow hits Prowl hard with something that discharges a blinding amount of current into his systems and sends him to the floor. He twists in his chains, resetting optics against static and flicking sensor wings to watch the Cons leave.

The interrogator shakes with what could be aftershock (30%) or laughter (80%) and fumbles at the door weakly before Barrow reaches past him to give a proper swipe on the control pad.

The door opens and the interrogator looks back at Prowl, still smirking, left optic sparking slightly. He tips his helm with a clumsy flourish. "S'been a pleasure, Prowler," he says as he ducks through the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Ricochet stumbles out into the hallway clumsy with a total systems integration disruption. Slag but that last swipe had been no joke. He plays it up, letting himself twitch and shudder to vent off some of that nervous energy buzzing through him. 

Scrapgrace was doorman for his run in the interrogation room. Those doors don't open from the inside, and the mech was watching and waiting for Ricochet to get hauled out. When Ricochet scampers out with Barrow missing a grab on him instead, Scrapgrace slams the cell shut in a hurry to catch him. 

Ricochet dodges like he's tripping and scuttles down the hall just out of his escorts' reach. Not fast or far enough to look like he's bolting, so they leave him a little space to laugh and bounce on his pedes.

He's been mauled with functional program damage and more than that he's _high,_ high from — from — close calls, improvising, rolling a mistake into a melody, and from that last minute dodge, a leap of intuition and luck and close connection with — with fraggin' _Prowl_ — yeah, _that_ Prowl — TacOps lieutenant — no, no, newly promoted TacOps head, he just learned that — over at the Steel Promise and isn't that wild, he'd managed a plunge through an extremely secured processor from exploits built off dual connection, shared memory and branched perspective, weirdly intimate and only half controlled. _Wild_.

He's laughing because he just nearly died performing a wild feat of mnemoscraping, just plunged himself startled and half-fragged into the most overclocked cortex he's ever brushed up against and came out coherent and with data.

He has data. That helps him tame the shakey giggles he's pretty sure he's managing to hide from Barrow but not Scrapgrace. Gracey's more observant than you'd assume from his slag-off heavy armor frametype and perpetual sullen glare.

Idents and assignments on one Prowl, quick notes on a neutral ship getting rescued, and a dizzying pile of plans and contingencies around breaking out one officer from the brig of the Inevitable Advance. He sorts them quickly, thinking as quietly as he can. 

That'll hold, but he needs some time to shore up the proper encryption and patch up his code. Also, to remember how to walk in a straight line.

"Thhank ya fr th' backoff—backup, catch ya—" He claps Barrow on the arm as he weaves by, pointing himself towards barracks. Towards barracks so long as he’s in sight, and if he's going to detour down to the little supply closet on LL5 where he keeps a first aid stash then that's between him, the lift logs, and probably a cassettecon.

Barrow catches his arm roughly. Ricochet’s too out of it to suppress a reflexive twitch away, and also too out of it to successfully avoid the grab. "No," Barrow grunts. "You're meant to report direct with no detours." 

He freezes. "Wha — I got — I got circuits to fixes 'n' slag." 

No, wait, wait. That's not his line. That's not how he talks.

He forces his frame to relax, and for his trouble gets a proprioceptive error that triggers a full frame spasm. At least it gets Barrow to let go of him. Pit, he'da faked one for that.

Scrapgrace has come up on his other side, looking all threatening and inevitable and Ricochet comes around to accept that his next destination is Crystalkeen's office. He's still talking for some reason, though. "Really mech, while I'm st-still glitchin'? I gotta decontamination. Contaminate. Decon — Gimme a breem wouldjya?"

Still not his line. He's slipping and he needs to bring this back. He quits trying to patch up his fragged up processor for long enough to force his vents to even and his threat subroutines to cycle the frag down. He has vocal glitching from a hack. He's got no need, no reason to want to go hide in a supply closet. 

Ricochet isn't worried about explaining to command why he failed at a basic suicide mission because he actually did an okay job somehow — no, did an okay job on purpose, revealed just enough competency to keep him worthwhile without making him interesting. He's got nothing to hide, only needs to organize his processor because it's a mess, is only reluctant to go immediately to debrief 'cause of the glitching and the failure to get more information. 

Ricochet isn't worried, because he is a fragging idiot who is going to die. 

He reroutes that thought immediately. 

Fragging Prowl. Fragging second degree processor damage.

"That's a breem, Ricochet," Scrapgrace says.

Ricochet nods and steps to ready in between the massive mechs, wrangling his balancing algorithms with brute force overrides that he’s going to pay for later. He studies the floor and walks at the pace Gracey and Barrow set, very carefully neutral. 

Balance systems get first patching priority because he might literally get slagged if he stumbles into Scrapgrace, mech's a mnemophobe running on high tension. Ricochet suspects Scrapgrace only gets regularly assigned grunt work in the interrogation wing because he slagged off someone with scheduling privileges. 

Ricochet has no desire to provoke his escorts and no justifiable need to try to pry some conversation out of them. He's got enough to deal with. Crystalkeen's office is barely a hallway away and Ricochet’s got limited time to jab his own systems into reasonable repair. He dumps a preliminary report onto the chip he'd been given for the purpose, but while he's plugging into his own wiring he slips in a patch or two to short out a processing connection here, reroute his flailing proximity sensors there.

Scrapgrace and Barrow pull up even with each other and stop. Ricochet waits between them for a beat too long before he remembers what's happening. His gaze snaps up, between the heavies, to Crystalkeen's office door. Rather, to the Advance's core intelligence office. If he's lucky, it'll be Crystalkeen at the debrief desk. If he's not — 

It's okay to be scared of Soundwave. Everyone is scared of Soundwave. It isn't weird or more than a little suspicious.

If there's dread in his processor, it doesn't make it to his frame. The door opens to his ping and he barely peeks in before he enters.

The door swishes shut behind him and cuts the overall lighting into deep gloom. Everyone who works in the office has oversensitive optics and the room is too dark for optics adjusted to the reasonably lit hallway immediately outside. Ricochet's left optic is roughly patched to a stable state but is mostly still doing its own thing and he has to manually run through settings until he can see.

Crystalkeen, set up in a debrief pod, jerks his chin to a chair in front of him.

Ricochet doesn't feel relief, doesn't feel anything because he got himself under control on the walk over. Well. He feels a bit uncoordinated, so he takes the walk across the room slower than he usually would when his boss looks that angry.

"Sir." Ricochet stands at attention, forcing protesting struts and cables to hold him steady for several sparkbeats. Silence stretches. He checks his chrono and confirms it isn't malfunctioning. Finally, Crystalkeen nods again at the chair and Ricochet collapses into it.

"You look..." Crystalkeen looks him over with undisguised contempt. "...well," he says.

The spiteful idiot living in the back of his processor briefly lets go of the patch preventing him from sparking at the left optic.

Crystalkeen doesn't so much as twitch, and looks unimpressed even through his blast mask. "Well, what did you get?"

Nothing that couldn't be given in a routine debrief. Ricochet passes along the data slug he'd written to on the way over, placing it carefully on the desk when his boss makes no move to take it.

"Mid—"

Crystalkeen waves a hand impatiently and taps at a secondary box and monitor that's sitting to the left of between them. "No. What did you get?"

It takes him a little too long to recognize the scanner and remember how this is supposed to go. He's never had to actually do a quarantined mnemo dump for a job. Which makes sense because — because of some reason that’s escaping him. 

Once he's properly plugged up to the monitor, Crystalkeen can see the details of his processing and whatever files he passes over. 

He starts again. "Mid-security medical and administrative detailing on the subject." Prowl's idents are fine to hand over, Ricochet’s humble triumph. There are a few details in there that probably aren't already stashed in Decepticon intelligence databases. He just got reassigned, a title adjustment to go with exile to this particular backwater of the war, that’s probably too new to already be in.

Crystalkeen is focused on the scanner, tapping through options like he's only half listening. Ricochet would feel ignored except that his thoughts and medical status are detailed on that screen. He assumes. It's not like he can see the monitor. He has a delirious half-thought of Crystalkeen playing a game on the other side of the table and quashes it with alacrity.

"Prearranged plans and contingencies to handle the subject's capture, including scenarios flagged as likely within the next two cycles." He passes over a partially corrupted summary of the various rescue scenarios. The information has been chopped up roughly, so that about half of the possibilities are overwritten in static. 

Ricochet catches a flicker of interest in his boss's face as he goes over the data, though it's buried under irritation.

"The subject attacked on realization that he had revealed the details of an upcoming mission." Ricochet had pulled out after getting enough details on a rescue plan to get jumped by his prisoner.

A disappointed tsk. “Why did you stop the scrape prematurely?”

“Subject had a high likelihood of physically destroying retrieved data in case of continued engagement.” Subject was about to fragging murder him. Ricochet highlights the tactical drawbacks of that and hushes the high value he’d put on not getting fragging murdered.

“Security is in there for a reason. Maintaining physical precautions is just as important as your software defenses and this is exactly why. Keep it in mind.”

“Yes sir.”

Crystalkeen glances up from the monitor to glare at him. "There's a bit more before the part where you ruined it with the hard disconnect."

"Fragmentary motivational analysis also suggests that at least one other planned mission will be compromised due to the subject's unavailability to coordinate." This throws links to older memories, his own memories, none of them pleasant. Prisoners screaming, infantry chanting, scrapping a ship for data and parts. The model of box he used with Prowl is Soundwave's design and could have some weird side effects.

Crystalkeen is scrolling back and forth through whatever he sees.

Ricochet waits. He realizes he should avoid picking at his remaining neural damage while his boss is inspecting it, so he thinks about nothing at all.

"This attack isn't a conventional interrogation defense. Why are your logs so incomplete?"

Ricochet passes over the logs and diagnostics he'd gotten of Prowl's processor organization. Those should have been specifically targeted by the quarantine scanner but Ricochet wouldn't necessarily know that. "In order to circumvent traditional defenses, I lured the subject to the virtual environment provided by the box."

Crystalkeen's expression dips from mild to strong irritation to outright anger. "You had mutual access." 

Ricochet doesn't let any extrapolation come to mind. He has no space here to be afraid. "The subject never had more than throttled access. The final attack likely would have been repelled by inbuilt defense systems if not for the hard disconnect, itself necessitated by physical threat." 

"Let's see your damage, then."

Ricochet scrabbles. An undercurrent of terror is innocent here so he doesn't even try to hide it from the scanner. Editing his own diagnostics is less innocent so he doesn't do that, doesn't even think about that, never would. 

Crystalkeen is back to looking at the scanner without a flicker of attention to Ricochet. "How would you rate your contamination risk?" he asks, too idly to be truly casual.

That's not a calculation he's practiced in. It's not one he's in a good position to make. The question is superficially technical but it's actually about loyalty or honesty or stupidity and there is no right answer. 

How likely are you to be compromised and require containment?

"5%" Ricochet says, doing a better job than Crystalkeen at sounding casual. It might even be a true assessment, he realizes.

"Keep your diagnostics up," Crystalkeen snaps.

Ricochet unfurls the parts of his mind he'd reflexively allowed to shy away from the scanner. He'd forgotten how much he hates those things.

After an eternity sitting still and thinking about nothing while an interrogation tool pokes through his mind, Crystalkeen swipes some buttons and Ricochet feels the software disengage. 

"Dismissed. Half shift medical leave." Crystalkeen says, swiveling to do something on his primary console.

"Thank you sir." Ricochet forces his hands to be steady and unrushed as he disconnects himself from the scanner and stands up.

He takes his time leaving, doesn't look back, and keeps his gaze and thoughts on nothing in particular until he makes it to the door.

Barrow and Gracey have moved to set up down the hall, taking a bit of empty space to lean not quite at attention. If they notice him leave the office, they don't bother to look up.

Ricochet carefully relaxes his grip on his thoughts. He's alive, he's basically intact. CK's not even so bad. Brusque, but more from poor social skills than cruelty. He had been in a bit of a snit, probably because Ricochet had failed to come back with — get hauled out knocked down by — the right kind of damage to reverse engineer Prowl's defenses, and now the other mech is going to be on guard and probably vindictive to whoever goes back for take two. 

He did sort of ruin their prospects for getting substantive information out of Prowl without getting Soundwave involved. Containment might be a real risk — out of spite and a critical eye at his generally poor-to-mediocre record, if nothing else. He needs to lay low. 

He needs to lay low, but it won't matter because even if he's not personally going to be dead in the next cycle he's going to have to do something terrible. The thought isn't sourced in anything Ricochet can identify. He hides any external trace of dread or panic and checks out his kinda-coworkers.

Ricochet slows his step as he passes by the pair on guard duty. Guard detail runs on arcane shift lengths and changes for security reasons. By Ricochet’s figuring, one of them is going to be due off any moment.

Barrow is unfriendly and casually violent towards mechs of Ricochet’s size, but his conjunx is a genuine sweetheart and Ricochet’s more than happy to risk some damage in exchange for some progress on puzzling out that particular mystery. Scrapgrace has demonstrated the suggestions of a thoughtful personality under his deep discomfort with Ricochet’s work.

"Either of you going for a cube?" he asks.

Barrow scowls. Scrapgrace gives a proper response. "We're midshift. Unlike some lucky slaggers."

"Another time, then." Ricochet flicks them an unperturbed farewell. He's pretty sure that Gracey was giving Barrow an out with a half lie, marking Barrow as the one getting the next relief. 

It's a mildly interesting note to make as he swipes out of the interrogation wing and heads for his favorite little repair closet down on sublevel 5. It's just as well he's heading off on his own, he has patches to go over anyway. 

Ricochet flips on some music, a lower-energy playlist for licking wounds. He soft and hard rerouted a bunch of systems to get himself functional enough for a debrief and most of that needs to be undone for proper healing. He's got motive relays trading off with tactiles to keep his whole left leg moving and that feels weird as pit but he's going to have to sit down before he takes that off and maybe then he can diagnose the weird panic spikes he's getting too.

Tweaking at hastily wrapped or snipped wires as he checks himself over, he notices that he's got a bypass corrupting a bit of his short term memory. Ugh. That's a stop gap mostly for viruses and it needs to come off, let the short term properly dump and integrate. He has a whole method for it but at best it'll give a nasty headache. Best to get it over with as soon as possible.

Ricochet flips through his standard checks and preparations with half his attention as he walks, and releases the trapped bit of memory.

He doesn't freeze in his tracks when it reintegrates, though he wants to.

Aw scrap, the neutrals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: yeah, a Soundwave scene! Soundwave is the best!!  
> also me: no, Soundwave would be unrealistic for the plot and background.  
> me: …for fuckin real right now?  
> still me: yeah, it’s gonna be a random setpiece OC.


	3. Chapter 3

As a prisoner, Prowl does not get a rest shift. Two more interrogators come in, one with proper needles. Prowl's indifferent cooperation is gone and he fights harder than is entirely reasonable. They are forced to pin him down, and meet with vengeful firewalls. Prowl is furious, at himself, and at the no-name interrogator who laughed as he staggered out of the cell.

He loses the cover plating over his ports and gains several raw edged gouges in his plating and a virus that crawls and burns in his peripheral processing. He almost breaks off the last interrogator(Pullarm, interrogator 1st class)'s needles, though. A net tactical loss that is nonetheless satisfying.

Pullarm is the best they have on base (96%). Soundwave must be held up (92%). He should have started from Helex as soon as the timeline became — as soon as Prowl had leaked the extremely sensitive timeline, and he should be here by now. The Autobots must have captured the Fornax bridge. Reinforcement will not make it in time (74%). Getting off lucky after failure infuriates Prowl, no matter if it is in his favor.

The 'Cons have realized they are out of time and are hoping to brute force something out of him. Then they will move him (23%, Autobot trackers are good and transit is vulnerable) or kill him (67%).

Prowl is settled sitting still on the floor, posing at the calm he had half a day ago. He would rather pace, but staying nearest where his chains anchor gives him the most useful range of motion and putting on a calm front increases the possible success of sudden violence later.

The situation, admittedly, is not looking good. His best strategies so far are not breaking 43% chance of successful retrieval (12% without significant injury). He is only a couple hundred simulations in, though, and he knows he can bring it up.

Prowl is mid-scenario when his original interrogator walks in. The matte black mech is back in the deliberate, expressionless behavior he had before he'd hacked Prowl. The infantry escort has been replaced by an interchangeable mid-heavy-armored dark purple mech. It is much like it was a cycle ago, only everything is completely different and Prowl is in a much worse position. He would hate that little black mech for it but he has plans to make and the interrogator is irrelevant.

Prowl's tac net shuts down his ongoing simulation so hard a few threads corrupt and reboot. Right, nothing is irrelevant in a circumstance like this. There was a 20% chance of seeing this mech again, and 86% of scenarios with his reintroduction give Prowl better odds.

The mech leans around the table to look at Prowl, sitting on the floor.

Even if the interrogator's defenses have been fully repaired, he has not had time for a proper defrag and all the seams and fresh code will be weak. It is idiotic to send him again. It was idiotic to send him the first time — but it worked and luck is damnably difficult to distinguish from a good trap.

Pullarm was the best. The guard is watching Prowl but he's also watching the interrogator. Decepticons tend to display less trust in most circumstances. Decepticons tend to trust less in most circumstances.

His own side is trying to dispose of the interrogator (34%) or is at least willing to sacrifice him lightly (98%). Prowl throws that calculation to the front of his processor and attaches summary numbers to show his work. It will be the first thing the other mech sees when he plugs in.

It is not enough to count as a plan. It is the best strategy available to Prowl at the moment.

The black mech approaches lightly, leaving a clear path to back off. Prowl considers attacking him (damaging the interrogator would weaken Prowl's position, 90%).

When the interrogator gets in reach, Prowl kicks off hard and leaps at the interrogator with one hand ready to yank him in and the other ready to rip something off of him. It is a sound move to hide the attempt at conspiracy he is about to make, and if part of him is simply panicking and lashing out it makes no difference.

His target steps back without a twitch and Prowl snaps against his chains and cuffs.

"Scrapgrace, restrain the prisoner."

The guard moves quickly, too quickly for Prowl to adjust himself into a position with any leverage or comfort. He slams roughly to the ground under a professionally brutal mass of heavy plating and armaments.

The interrogator does not sit down fully, crouches next to Prowl and the security mech and keeps his weight shifted back and ready to spring away at a hint of danger. Prowl is incapable of providing any danger at the moment, but he finds a bead of satisfaction in his captor's caution.

Prowl's wires are already exposed and the mech moves as confidently as he did last time. Pinned to the floor and still furious at himself, the slow connection of cables and wires is painful to watch and Prowl is impatient for it to happen already.

Finally, the last plug clips in. The interrogator leans back and dims his optics.

Prowl feels no connection. Not a dull connection, not a dummy connection, no connection at all.

The main port, Prowl realizes, is not actually plugged in. It is close, visually indistinguishable from a true connection, but the circuit is not clicked into place.

“What are you—”

The interrogator gestures and the mech on Prowl’s back stabs through his sensor wing. Prowl gets a moment of dumb surprise before white out pain registers. His perception slides under a wash of agony and Prowl growls feedback to keep a hold of himself. When he is reoriented, he is a few micromets out of place, pinned a little more restrictively, and a light sting where he has scuffed his plating has joined the shrill pain in his wing.

Prowl grits his teeth and blanks his expression to match the mech crouched next to him.

The matte black mech keeps his gaze dim and directed vaguely over Prowl’s head, set almost perfectly still and silent.

Prowl waits it out and steadily banishes the pain in his wing from his attention.

Five breems later (plus or minus two on account of distraction), his interrogator brings his optics back up. He reaches out and for a moment plugs the primary connection all the way into place. The line flickers to life, a single lightweight file passes across, and the line flickers back out. The motion is smooth, to external appearances the unremarkable first step in methodically disconnecting and putting away his kit.

“Job’s done,” he says. His voice is flat and bored, oddly jarring compared to the lilting chatter Prowl has been replaying internally since their last encounter.

Prowl could almost believe he imagined the file, but Prowl does not imagine things like that. Besides, he has it, sitting politely outside his firewalls. A metadata check comes back to tell him it is a tiny low-level archive titled `DONTOPENTHISYET`.

He accepts the file and opens it. `ERROR: no really just wait like two breems prowler`. He dutifully checks it over for indications that it will destroy itself after too many failed attempts to access, and, finding none, starts a brute force decryption. Moments later, it locks him out with a two breem timer and an `ERROR: its a small encryption not a stupid one`.

The interrogator finishes packing up and goes to the door without a backwards glance. He swipes at the access pad, which blinks a green light and does nothing. Prowl gives 70% likelihood that exit access is disabled for interrogations and external security needs to let anyone out. The door remains shut as the interrogator crosses his arms and waits, facing the wall.

The weight on his back shifts and Prowl is pulled from the floor and jostled roughly upright. The movement twists his wing with a dizzying wash of pain that almost makes him miss the door opening to let in the security from yesterday. Barrow.

Barrow fills the doorway and watches while his coworker dials up Prowl’s stasis cuffs and unhooks and rehooks his restraints. It is time, then. He is being moved (23%, “moved” 67%).

The interrogator ducks for the door. Barrow casually reaches out to block his exit. “You dumped it in triple?”

The interrogator stills, half pinned in the doorway by a mech twice his mass. “As instructed,” he nods and passes a data slug into Barrow’s waiting hand. 

Prowl does not know exactly what this mech did to cross his commanders, but there is a 61% likelihood that they are about to die together.

They drag Prowl out into the hallway, and he manages to stay on his pedes and move on his own power. Mostly. There is a non-trivial amount of stumbling and getting yanked along. He is painfully aware of his generally poor condition (the wing is more a distraction than a mechanical fault, low energy and systemic circuit damage will be his greater enemies in a physical altercation).

“You too, Ricochet,” today’s security calls out, when the interrogator starts to split off.

He — Ricochet — shrugs and falls in behind the group. Prowl stretches his good wing as open as he can, straining for every detail he can get. The heavies have a tight grip and a close watch on him. The file in his messages pings a breem and a half to unlock. Ricochet keeps pace like he is bored or half-asleep and Prowl tries not to choke on the possibilities that threaten to slip right by.

There is no proper reason for Ricochet to be here, coming up on 75% that he is just as doomed as Prowl is and it is honestly in his best interest to, to do _something_. If Ricochet can at least dial down the stasis cuffs, between the two of them they have solid 12% chance of overpowering the escort and while that is not a comfortable number it is better than nothing and Prowl burns with frustration that this slagging interrogator is going to let them both die against his own self interest.

He forces himself to vent. The situation should become more obvious in time. His vents fail to fully compensate for excess heat. A frisson of terror creeps through Prowl as he registers an actual external increase in temperature. Wherever they are going is hot.

They come to a stop at a sliding door. Barrow keys it and all of Prowl's systems cycle to fight or flight in the minor eternity they spend waiting. The door shudders open like it needs oil.

Now? Prowl tenses and is unceremoniously shoved and dragged in. His escort is still with him. It is a lift.

The lift rattles downwards. Prowl runs what battle checks he can while looking as harmless as he can. The heat builds. In the cramped space, he can get a better look at Ricochet and searches him for any sign at all that he is not a complete idiot. Ricochet does a convincing impression of a drone.

The doors open to glowing heat. Everyone’s vents and fans are running full blast, almost useless in the atmospheric heat.

A smelter.

A narrow walkway cuts down the middle. Prowl is smaller and injured and fighting in the lift would quickly become a contest of strength. He wants to take the fight on the walkway, by a moderate margin.

Barrow shoves him forward roughly and Prowl leans in to the movement, stumbling out onto the walkway. Now.

Prowl grabs and yanks at an arm as he goes by, trying to pull one of the heavies into a stumble that he can use. In the startled crash of movement he looks to find Ricochet. “Help me or die,” he shouts. “There is an 80%—”

But Ricochet is already moving, body checking the heavy Prowl pulled and sending him tumbling the rest of way to the ground then he is a blur of movement ripping weaponry off both escorts and flinging each piece out of reach until he is down to two knives which are already sweeping up and then down to slash up through Barrow’s neck and down across the side of the face of the other and wires and energon spray in an arc.

“—chance that they will kill you as well,” Prowl finishes, because it is less distracting to finish the thought than it would be to abort it.

The one on the ground turns to Ricochet in response to being stabbed through the face and Prowl uses his distraction to shove him towards the edge of the walkway. His stasis cuffs flare and throttle the movement into a weak nudge. His opponent looks back at him more incredulous than threatened and Prowl is honestly inclined to agree with the implied assessment. Prowl’s odds of winning this fight unassisted were vanishingly small and the _luck_ at play here threatens to distract him.

Ricochet presses the advantage and kicks his opponent in the knee in a way that sends him careening into the other with enough force to send him over the edge. He shrieks static before hitting molten slag with a muted crash.

“Wait a klik did you say 80?” Ricochet asks without looking, jumping backwards as Barrow comes back up with a snarl of rage.

Barrow is spitting anger and insults but it is muted and more click than language. That first slash went for comms and vocalizer.

“Eight-zero? I mean, I know it weren’t a good deal for me but 80 is high. If we killed 80% of kinda incompetent mechs—” His chatter carries over Barrow’s broken vocalization and gets lost under the crash of metal as Barrow tackles him and the two grapple in a rush that spins the pair to the edge.

Ricochet twists and separates out as they teeter on the edge. Prowl lunges forward to grab Ricochet before they both go over but he can tell before he makes it that Ricochet is firmly grounded (magnetized to the walkway) and Barrow is about to fall.

Ricochet eases back for a moment, holding Barrow over the edge. “Hey, want me to tell your boy in transport anything in particular?” he says.

“Frag you you rusting traitor glitch.”

Prowl takes the moment without a 'Con on him to locate the weapons kicked aside earlier. He spots a rifle by the lift doors and goes for it as he hears Barrow fall, clicking in fury.

Ricochet hops by him, rolling his optics as he passes. “Yeah, I ain’t gonna pass that on,” he mutters. He neatly collects the rifle, another knife, and a blaster out of nowhere.

Prowl scans for any unclaimed weapons. There are bits of broken glass that could do in a pinch, but his close range chances against Ricochet are (2% definitive victory) bad.

Ricochet casts him a look. “You’re missing cultural nuance. 'Cons like to scare the slag outta people for motivation. Dangle the annoying comms grunt over a smelter, make him watch you slag a 'Bot, break for lunch and back to work.”

Prowl trips himself to get as much speed as he can with stasis cuffs sapping him and grabs for the rifle in Ricochet’s grasp. His fingertips brush metal but find no purchase. Prowl falls roughly, forces the motion into a roll so that he comes up facing the 'Con.

Ricochet twitches back easily. “Woah! Grabby!”

It had been worth a try. Only one. If he keeps trying to wrestle for a weapon (5% success) he is going to overheat. Prowl shifts to a ready stance, opens his vents against the brutal heat and watches the little 'Con, searching for any hint of what his plan is here.

“‘Kay so this is going to go way better if you’re armed but way worse if you immediately shoot me through the spark.” Ricochet holds up both guns. The knife vanished while Prowl was not looking. “So. Promise not to shoot your helpful guide?”

Prowl narrows his optics. There is a very limited possibility (8%) that Ricochet knows how seriously Prowl takes his promises. This is a bargain (cooperation in exchange for assistance) wrapped in politesse and the bargain is too weak to make sense.

“Where, to be clear, the helpful guide is me. C’mon, ain’t complicated. Please don’t shoot me, if nothing else it’d be a real waste of rescuing me just now.”

Tac net integration throws an utterly unhelpful error. His systems are already struggling to purge the virus Pullarm left, and the heat and nonsense are not helping. Prowl force quits analysis chains until the threat of a glitch fades. Now is not the time. He leaves the rescue comment for later. 

“I will not shoot you unprovoked,” Prowl says. He is pretty sure cooperating is the right thing to do. 85. 90%. 

Ricochet laughs. “Eh, good enough I guess. We got an S2 rifle and a 400 blaster here, what're you used to?”

“The rifle.” An S2 is only a little heavier and more finicky than his usual.

Ricochet nods and sets the blaster on the ground. He kicks it over with a grin and settles the rifle securely to his side. “Gotcha. Now lemme get that inhibitor off you, and we can get you good and escaped before you can say ‘what a terrible and unnecessary way to die.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dropped Scrapgrace’s name early on to avoid having to type around two unknown names, but then realized that Prowl does not even kind of care about his name and straight ignores it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friends my original outline guessed it would take about 500 words to get through what ended up being this chapter I’ve lost what little control I had send help

Well he messed that up a little. Ricochet wasn’t expecting Prowl to throw out 80 fragging percent and sue him, he was surprised and halfway sure of a lie. He still isn’t convinced it’s the truth, but he’s already fragged up his story by reacting the way he did. Oh well, nothing to do but babble on top of it and move right along.

“C’mon, c’mon, there should be a thing in a place somewhere around here,” he says, setting off for the maintenance lift and shelving on the other end of the catwalk. He starts his ‘your timeline is only five songs long’ playlist and tries to judge whether Prowl would let Ricochet go back there, pick him up and haul him along. Mech is following at a pace like he’s restrained and injured, both of which he definitely is. They gotta get off the cameras before he’s gonna do the cuffs and inhibitor, though.

At the little access corridor he hums to himself and makes a show of rummaging through the supply shelving before palming his inhibitor key and turning triumphantly to brandish it at Prowl. “There we go!”

Prowl’s optics are dim and his vents are audibly straining. Ricochet catches a wince as he takes a heavy step and jostles his injured wing. Mech is in real pain, but he’s not trying very hard to hide it so Ricochet’s expecting him to try another sudden push or grab at some point. Slag but there’s nothing he can do about that right now.

Comms and integrated weapons are snipped, they’re staying offline, but cuffs and T-cog inhibitor claw come off with minimal fuss. Some of the parts around Prowl’s T-cog look misaligned, and the cuffs take a filmy layer of melted polymer with them when they come off. “We gotta get ya out of the heat,” Ricochet mutters as he stashes the restraints. “S’cool, that’s the plan anyway, this is the lift we—”

When Ricochet turns back and looks up, _blaster barrel_ registers first, because of course it does. Prowl looks stronger, more alert, but that might be a psychological thing now that he’s stepped back out of melee range and pointing his blaster at Ricochet.

“Thought you weren’t gonna shoot me,” Ricochet says slowly.

“I have not yet shot you.” 

The blaster is dead steady fixed on him. If he doesn’t think about it how much can he telegraph it, right? Ricochet starts to—

Prowl fires a shot into his shoulder and steps back exactly enough to maintain distance.

Ricochet jerks at the impact. Alright, alright, not a bluff. No follow up shot, at least. “Fraggin ow, Prowl!” He slaps at the wound and finds minimal damage. 

He didn’t even gain any ground with that. Prowl stands calmly out of reach. When he sees Ricochet looking up, he slowly and clearly turns the energy setting up on his blaster.

“Ya got a real _generous_ definition of ‘provocation’, y’know?” Ricochet says.

Prowl pauses. “I do,” he acknowledges. “I dislike incomplete knowledge. Why are you helping me?”

Ricochet sets back against a wall and inspects the blaster scorch on his shoulder. Singed and painful, but squarely on thick unbroken plating. “Least I can do after you killed Barrow and Scrapgrace when they tried to kill me.”

“That isn’t what happened,” Prowl says, sounding like something is strained on a deep level. Bot had better not slagging pass out before he gets out of here or Ricochet may legitimately be forced to smelt him.

“Yeah, but what happened is bad news for everyone.” Ricochet waves dismissively. “Let’s go with the version where you killed them and busted out on your own.”

“That is not what happened,” Prowl repeats.

“Mech we got a timeline and it ain’t got a slot for me to explain the concept of lying.” He turns to the lift as casually as he can while his attention is pretty much completely fixated on the gun pointed at him. “C’mon, _I’m_ gettin’ out of here even if you’re—”

Another shot, a brighter flash and a hiss of pain on the same fragging shoulder — for a moment he’s sure it’s gone through too clean and hot to feel and he’s about to die — but no it’s near miss, kissed over his plating. Ricochet stills. He turns back to face Prowl as neutrally as he can manage. “Alright. I’m not going anywhere. What would you like me to do?”

“Tell me why you are helping me.”

Ricochet groans. “You shot me twice over _that_? You’re the one who called it! Was pretty bad odds they were gonna smelt me too and I’m not about that. And now you’re my fall guy and I need you outta here — you need you outta here, lookit our mutual goals, same page great let’s go!” He doesn’t make for the lift again, though. Prowl’s gotta be at least exhausted and exhausted and trigger happy is not a combo Ricochet wants to keep testing.

“You expected to live.”

“Hoped to live!” Ricochet corrects. “And figured best chance of that was if somehow you overpowered the guards and busted free before anyone could check your processor on how exactly.”

Prowl shakes his head and the blaster bobs in a movement that makes Ricochet smother a twitch. “Just now, you expected to live. It doesn’t make sense that you would act so drastically and jeopardize that if your risk calculation varied so drastically from mine.”

“What? My risk calc — mech, I am not kidding about the time pressure here we do not have time for your levels of sense. Can we at least have this conversation off-camera before someone wakes up and comes to check on us?”

Prowl glances back, optics picking out — scrap, picking out each of the cameras in the smelter. “Tell me why you are helping me.”

They’re supposed to be several floors up and a hallway over now. Prowl looks worn and unhealthy and it’s not right that he’s still so fragging steady with that aim.

“Fine. My amica is on the Wandering Star.” 

Prowl’s got a monster poker face, but there’s for sure a hint of surprise under that. Or maybe confusion. Fragger better not be trying to place the name.

“That ship that — you gotta go save that ship.”

He nods, once. “His designation?”

“Roller,” Ricochet grits out. This had better pay off.

Another single nod. Mech is rationing them or something.

Ricochet tentatively eases back towards the lift, which arrived a while ago and now sports a fun black mark where Prowl fragging shot it to make a point. “Right, well, nice as it is to slowly melt down here, feels like about time to—” 

The blaster tracks him. “Stop.”

He stops.

“What is your rush?”

“Incoming maintenance shift,” Ricochet snaps. 

Prowl’s good wing flutters fractionally. “Just 21 more kliks.”

The playlist hits the trill in that one stanza, which means, yeah timing-wise — “The file?” Ricochet laughs. “Prowlie” — eh, nah, not bad but maybe a note _too_ condescending — “I needed to pass you a file to register a buncha events in the logger. It’s dummy hack debris. Timelocked so you don’t get distracted during a fairly _sensitive_ and _dangerous_ extraction.”

Prowl doesn’t give any reasonable kind of indication that he even heard. 

Ricochet thinks he may hate this guy. He reflects on that while they wait.

Downbeat, rest-three-four — it’s subtle — again, monster poker face — but Prowl’s expression takes on the slightly distracted edge of a mech reading a file, a tiny frown of consideration forming.

Slag, slag, slag. The access hallway is small and pretty slagging bereft of reasonable cover to dive for. There’s a little bit of lip in the lift entrance he can maybe duck behind — not that it matters with how fragging quick Prowl is on the trigger, and — slag, he’s got nothing. He braces.

Prowl’s optics brighten as he goes through the packet. Ricochet decides that, if he lives, he’s going to figure out how to make a version that unlocks when he’s a certain distance away. Prowl doesn’t need access to maps, gate codes, and route schedules so long as Ricochet’s leading — trying to lead — him out, and, now that he’s got the files, he doesn’t exactly need someone to guide him. He’d really thought he’d part ways with Prowl before his ability to help became redundant.

Plating crawling with anticipation of another, deadlier shot, Ricochet appeals to tactics. “Your odds of making it are still much better with me in play.”

Prowl’s optics refocus on him. “Of course they are,” he says. He pauses, scrutinizing Ricochet. “I appreciate your help.” 

And that, apparently, is that. Ricochet’s fight or flight responses can’t decide whether or not they can let up a tick. Honestly, whatever, who knows what’s next he doesn’t.

Prowl lowers the blaster and — finally — heads for the lift. “This is Access Lift 3?”

Please just fragging get in. “Yessir,” Ricochet grins and leads him onto the lift with a flourish. He feels a little drunk with nerves. He should probably start venting again before the heat actually damages him.

“Right, right, so this’ll take us to corridor I-6 — you see the camera cheatsheet? ‘S important for right away, see, watch the timing on Mr. Blinky — camera I-6A — and then we got steady blindspots so the rest of the creep will be easy and from there we can get t’ this bit on the east wall where Rockstock’s cut-price anticorrosives ain’t even kinda good enough for the atmosphere and we’ll bust through, abseil down, never hafta see each other again.”

Prowl is staring at him like he’s babbling nonsense. Or maybe he's just trying to parse Ricochet’s accent. Hopefully he isn’t in the middle of collapsing from stress. Either of them, really. 

“You see the highlighting on the main floorplan I sent—”

Prowl holds up a hand. “I am prepared to follow the blindspot hopping implied by the camera diagram.” He’d taken the back corner of the lift — probs to get better blaster range on Ricochet, but also a good spot if they happen to run into a coworker — but he gives that up to lean in closer to Ricochet. “Are you playing music right now?”

He is but — “Aw scrap, my internal comms are leaking?” That’s — that’s super embarrassing. “Sorry. Someone tried to hack and murder me yesterday and some of my systems are still sparky.”

Ooh, he’s not sure he woulda said that if he’d thought about it first. Prowl straightens oddly, “I—,” he hesitates and then the lift doors open and they’re pretty much perfectly timed for Mr. Blinky.

Ricochet set up the camera system on I-6 himself and he’s pretty proud of it. Mr. Blinky misses a second of footage every half-breem, and the second’ll be right — Ricochet darts through to the blindspot against the far wall. Prowl clings alongside him — which, Ricochet hadn’t really figured one way or another on whether they’d move together but either way should be fine. Prowl’s slower but still makes it clear in the window they’ve got. It is a little snug with the two of them huddled in the blindspot together though.

“I would have assumed stealth to be critical at this juncture,” Prowl whispers.

“You still on the music?” Ricochet asks at normal volume. “No mics in this hall. ‘Sides I promise ya it’s quieter than that freaky grinding noise your ventral fan keeps making. Plus it’s way easier to follow than a chrono, right, na na da —” Mr. Slippy sweeps the hall on rotation because there’s a bit of a budget on base and sweeping cameras means fewer cameras, and starting on the fourth beat there’s plenty of time to jog down to the next blindspot provided by the various Mr. Slightly Misaligneds.

Prowl lags a little behind. He’s shaking his head, looks like he has something to say. He’s missing the window.

“Walk ‘n talk Prowler!” Ricochet calls back over his shoulder as he continues on, mostly to be annoying.

Their destination is a currently unused office that’s riding the line between ‘under construction’ and ‘derelict.’ Ricochet pops open the lock and unplugs the power supply like he’s a tech troubleshooting an electrical issue — power-off unlocks for that particular make, designed by some softspark trying to keep people from dying during power grid interruptions. He’s inside and trying to pick the best spot of the far wall to blow up when Prowl catches up.

“Wait,” Prowl sounds — irritated? Ricochet kinda expects to find the blaster pointed at him again when he turns to look. Instead Prowl is pressed against the back wall with his optics shut, a hand pressed to face. “Stop _moving_ so much, I need to think.” 

Ricochet’s a little caught up digging through his pockets for something he can use as a fuse and he’s not sure how much it’ll actually help if he stops moving what with Prowl already looking away anyway but he could probably fidget a little less at least so he does. Oh, a polishing rag — yeah, that’ll burn. 

“This route will not work.”

“Kiddin’ me? We already did the hardest part — it’s 14:173 local time and see I-6-15 on the map? We’re in I-6-15 and then it’s down to the ground and run home easy.”

“I understand the outlined route. The time is irrelevant. Based on all patrol annotations provided and extrapolating details on the patrol marked ‘eh idk where these guys go play safe k,’ I will be intercepted.”

Ricochet looks up from the itty little charge he’s setting on the wall. It’s basically done anyway. “Starboard shift 5? What’d you extrapolate for them? Slaggers are stealth-modded, y’know, where _do_ those guys go? Also, wherever it is, it’s defs way the frag out of the way, you’re modifying the provided route like woah ain’t ya, why are you doing that don’t do that.” He holds the end of the fuse delicately and gestures Prowl to back off as much as he can and look away as he lights it.

Prowl doesn’t really need to be told to back off. He’s still against the door and he’s looking away again like it pains him to look directly at Ricochet. “If it is 14:173 now, next pass they should mostly follow the ridge east. I cannot cross span F in the window provided — please tell me that that detonation was not loud enough to reach an occupied office.”

“Aw, Prowl, ask nice like that and I will tell you whatever you wanna hear.” Ricochet rips at the shiny new hole in the wall, peeling back half-corroded metal to get enough space to squeeze a mech through. “An’ if it ain’t too forward, what the slag are those wheels for if you can’t cross F in two to six breems?”

Prowl steps away from the wall and whirrs into the beginning of a transformation that sputters into nasty grinding and — “Smoke! Stop, stop, Prowl you’re smoking don’t frag with that!” Prowl disengages the process and a red hot burr flies out of somewhere in his internals. Yeah, Ricochet ain’t got near the medical training to handle that. “Okay, no alt today, ya coulda led with that.”

He steps back with a wince. “Verification was necessary. I will be restricted to root mode, for which the unmodified route has a 98% chance of interception. With modification, over the next half-cycle I have at best 91% chance of interception.”

“Well that ain’t gonna work for us.” Huh, just as well he didn’t get away from Prowl before the maps unlocked or the mech would be stranded on the ground and this whole thing woulda been a bit of a waste. It’s real nice being lucky. “Okay, okay.”

Ricochet closes his vents and slithers through the breach, into the grimy space between the base proper and the outside wall. The outer metal here is so corroded that light splits through in patches, offering a sneak’s pick of easy exits. They don’t all gotta be straight down and out. 

Ricochet magnetizes to the inner layer and hums as he bends the last piece out of the way. He offers Prowl an arm through the hole. Big injured stiff is probably gonna need an assist. “New plan! You’re gonna hug me like an oversized symbiote and I’m gonna lug your aft through sectors T7-6-4-J-9-6, see the way?”

Prowl watches him from across the room for a long moment before he nods and comes over. “I see.”

Prowl is — he’s probably not super used to field operations. It’s fine though, Ricochet gets a grapple set in a good spot and — “Fold your leg — no, no the other way!” — they barely bash uncontrolled against the crawlspace at all as he pulls, twists, and wriggles them into a secure grip on the walls.

Right when Ricochet starts pulling them up, Prowl stiffens and kicks at corroded metal like he’s trying to get dropped. “Don’t thrash, you outweigh me!”

Then there’s a shiv jabbed in under his armor. Ricochet stops pulling them up.

“You are taking us to a security station,” Prowl says. 

Right. No trust here, he’s stressed and he’s ready to kill a Decepticon before he can get betrayed. That’s fine, that’s fine, he can work with this. To be fair, Prowl is completely right and Ricochet maybe should have said something first.

“Yep. New plan: better than the old plan is gonna take long enough to frag up my timeline, so we gotta make a pit stop so I can handle the footage and tie some loose ends.”

The shiv is an off-cut of construction glassteel, and pretty much what Ricochet gets for leaving a hostile prisoner unattended in a hallway full of construction debris. It’s a long moment before it withdraws from the gap in his armor. “You will inform me of such changes in plan before executing them,” Prowl says.

“Fair ‘nough.” Ricochet’s armor clicks shut over that particular seam almost involuntarily, but he’s a light armor class and Prowl’s got options.

He manages to climb them through the crawlspace without getting stabbed, though, and he’ll take that as a victory.

He can’t bust through the wall and leave a hole in the side of a security office, even one that’s just a pod of desks, consoles, and spare camera parts. So he leaves a hole in a vent, busts through the ceiling in the hall outside, then walks into security like a normal person. Walks in like Tiptop, specifically, whose ID he’s spoofing. Unfortunately the route doesn’t have a good spot to leave Prowl, who ends up following like a particularly surly security breach.

“Hold the door shut, yeah?” It’s only half to keep Prowl in a place. Physically holding the door closed is gonna be the least traceable way to keep someone from walking in. Low tech ain’t all bad. 

Prowl obliges with a brief grudging look. 

“Thank you thank you!” Ricochet hums as he gets to work. This is meant to be a fairly minor security office, but they used to run keycard troubleshooting out of here and there’s a databank cable leftover that was meant to get cleared up, but the project assignment for that — long, boring, story short, three of the consoles in here are horrible security vulnerabilities. Ricochet plugs into one and gets started.

“What are you doing?” Prowl’s got the blaster out again. Ricochet pretends he doesn’t notice.

“Stuff, Prowl. Things.” He’s got a lot to do very quickly — and Pit, but he's good at that, and he’s a glitch with dangerously prioritized emotional systems so, so, yeah, this is the most fun he’s had in a while. Smelter cameras — smelter is a brutal environment that destroys everything left there too long, so it’s easy enough to jump back to the last maintenance log, talk the damage up a little, and fry the actual feeds with the type of degradation to simulate a perfectly innocuous end of lifecycle. Lift and shift logs — pure soft data, barely even interesting to fix. More bureaucratic records, setting up something like an alibi for Ricochet, that’s going to be a little more —

Prowl perks up with poorly hidden interest when Ricochet pulls out his encryption and data IO helper hookups and pads. Uh. Not a great sign. 

“You’re supposed to look away when someone is working on a computer,” Ricochet points out, hovering an inch over his console.

Prowl nods. “In this circumstance, I will not,” he says.

A half dozen retorts, demands, jokes, and bargains half assemble themselves in his mind but honestly, Ricochet has so little control over Prowl, it’d probably be easier to just set off a flashbang if he really wants privacy. Not worth it, he decides. He’s only got the one on him and he might want it later.

“Fine,” he mutters, and hardlines into the heavier duty connection. This is the trickier part. There are dead security mechs, a missed data pass-off, and a few whereabouts to twist into some kinda plausible narrative. He has to open up some special projects work. He pulls up a dessert menu. High octane, candied, there, rust twist, that's a deserter who's still a ghost in the system, who Ricochet promptly frames for this — then there are updates and follow ups of course, every access is time sensitive and besides he is nosy and opportunistic. It’s convoluted, and he’s careful, but he’s _quick_ with overclocked focus and he’s ready to do the master encrypt and disconnect before Prowl has even had time to get bored watching a mech fidget at a console.

Prowl clicks a startled rebuke when Ricochet starts playing his encryption. “Music?” He hisses incredulously. “What are you, _why_ — Do you appreciate the _danger_ —” 

Did Prowl just _click_ at him like he’s a noisy — Ricochet hasn't heard sound that in real life for a long time, that’s a sound from the caricatures of condescending elites featured in cheap Decepticon-subsidized vids. He’s too surprised to be offended.

“I’m appreciative! So appreciative we’re playing it safe with the big slow one-time pad encryption pass and that slagger wants more information resolution than yer gonna get outta anything but sensory packets — and okay, maybe there’s a little security-whimsy tradeoff using music over a personal memory but information creeps right and besides seems like a shame to lockout someone who gets the right song.” He babbles with half attention, less trying to explain himself than to keep a bit of rhythm while he cleans up any lingering tracks, digital or physical.

“Music is a poor choice of pad,” Prowl says. “Structured and repetitive phrasing runs the risk of patterns that break true randomness.”

Ricochet feels an odd catch in his attention, like the opposite of losing a train of thought. 

Prowl is looking at him with a faint disapproval, and Ricochet should probably be scolding himself for talking without thinking. Prowl has proved immune to his babble and dissembling and mostly it’s been annoying, but it’s also kind of — electric. 

“Yeah, that's what they tell ya! But give it an actual listen, this is Helex arthouse counter-revival, primo low structure abstract over polyrhythms, the cycles come out to unstable waves, chaotic enough pseudo-period to hide from a brute force ‘till fraggin heat death, pattern in a series perfect for index-free tracking of an access history.” He grins at his extractee and picks the music back up, loud enough to share.

Prowl tilts his head like he’s either listening, or contemplating his chances without Ricochet’s company. They ain’t good, so Ricochet makes him listen even after the pad finishes, leaving the music going until they’re back into the hallway. 

He doesn’t actually need Prowl to constantly remind him to be stealthy, and Prowl’s making more than enough damage-related noises, but they make it to the crawlspace. Once they’re in the crawlspace, they’re just a thin, highly corroded layer from not being on base, and in the scheme of things this is still coming out a pretty smooth exit from base.

They’re grappled out to the outer wall of base without a hint of problem, the security office is exactly as it was, his data intrusion is, as he says, fragging undetectable, and Prowl swaps the blaster back out for the shiv as they enter close quarters, which is a combat situation Ricochet would win easy if it comes to it. This? Rescuing this mech? This might be the best idea he’s had in a while. He reflects on that while they skim down the side of the base.


	5. Chapter 5

They slide against the wall at a jerking pace that strays closer to freefall than Prowl would prefer. He fights a reflex to squeeze his grip on Ricochet. At best, that would be embarrassing. At worst, it could send them plummeting to their deaths.

Ricochet sticks using grappling lines and his claws to grip into the side of the wall. He avoids use of his internal magnets, because they are unnecessary for the difficulty (68%), or to conceal (41%) or downplay (77%) their presence from Prowl. 

For all that, they hit the ground with surprising gentleness. The impact jars Prowl’s injuries with enough force to hurt considerably, but less than he was prepared for. He still needs a moment to clear errors and realign battered components. By the time he is oriented, Ricochet has squirmed away, dropped to alt-mode, and started driving short sprints into tight turns, zig zagging within a short radius.

Prowl squints through the dust. What is he — Prowl’s half-fritzing tac net perks up at the opportunity to try to crash before he forcibly refocuses.

“What information did you pass on after yesterday’s session?” Prowl asks.

Ricochet spins out to a stop just in front of Prowl, pointed at an angle across the broken plains. “Aight aight, we’re at 401T712 on the map ‘n I’m pointed 53 degrees, ready when you are.”

Prowl considers whether Ricochet did not hear him and discounts it (83%). “We are headed near one of the original planned extraction areas. I need to know what information leaked in order to calculate the expected reinforcement.” 

“What?” Ricochet bobs on his suspension. “Oh. Move fast enough, won’t be an issue. Hey, you’re _capable_ of walk and talk, right? Multi-threading-wise?”

Prowl is capable of tracking hundreds of interdependent parameters and spinning out simultaneous scenarios with running ranked optimization and more than that he is capable of recognizing an attempt to derail legitimate questioning with cheap insults.

Ricochet idles backwards until he bumps against Prowl’s leg. Prowl is _capable_ of remaining calm against _active irritation_.

Clutching over the top of someone’s alt mode is clumsy, dangerous, and a common method of emergency extraction. This Decepticon still does not make sense, and operating without understanding is inviting disaster. But Prowl would be dead already without his help. He carefully grabs on. “What —”

Ricochet tears off like they are under fire. Prowl’s sensors spin, overwhelmed by speed and the throb of injury and, for a few moments outside of time, a rumble of resettling frequencies as Ricochet shifts to full gear, engine humming against Prowl’s frame. 

Prowl grips tight, uncomfortably aware of how easily (10 mechaneutons of perturbation) he could fall off. 

GHX-9 is a trade route colony world, inhabited by a sizable mixed population of organics and mechanicals. The terrain tends to the mineral, just comfortable enough to preclude the effort of cyberforming. Navigation over any substantial distance tends to require a mix of root and alt mode. Ricochet drifts, falls, and ramps over terrain Prowl would stop to walk over even though he is not an ideal build for off-roading (especially so encumbered) so the pace he sets is reckless and terrifying.

It is all Prowl can do to keep track of their journey on the map, relying on speed and heading more than the blurred landmarks skimming by. He is 91% sure they have made it into map sector T4 (48% of total distance) when Ricochet glides to a stop. Prowl drops off as soon as he is going slow enough to do so safely. Ricochet springs up to root just in time to catch himself against a cliff wall instead of crashing into it. Tac net tags the maneuver as 46% deliberate and attempts to start 12 parallel responses to potential physical attacks from Ricochet.

“Whew, shouldnt’a sprinted quite so much right there, maybe,” he vents heavily and flexes and settles a long transformation seam, laying parts carefully back into place. “Next bit is yours. This ain’t marked as a passable section in the map, ‘cause, well, you see the mine and sentry markers? Ridge along sector J on the map. You see the sentry schedule? You gotta do the thing you did with the patrol route, ya good? Hey any chance your comms are online?”

Prowl notes that he could have pressured the Decepticon for information for much more of the escape had they exchanged comms immediately. Not that it matters. “Yes, yes, yes, and no.” 

They are meant to cross through the perimeter of an outer watchpost of the base. Prowl sees the sentry schedule and the mines, and the terrain, and the position of the sun and the implied security posts, and it will require high stakes detailed calculation and it will be a joy and a treat because it will not require _persuasion_. “I still need to know what information you passed to your commanders. This also applies to your amica, in case you had not considered that. Tell me what you reported.”

Ricochet looks up while he stretches out a knee. “Well, rough processor specs, but that’s basically common knowledge, right? Point is, you got a thing to do in a bit here.”

Prowl takes in the darting looks, the rapid fidgeting (he is twitching digits and fidgeting a knee at different frequencies and that seems like it should be difficult to coordinate) and he can almost hear once again the chaos of overlapping processes and calculations that he got while plugged in. It makes his processor itch in an unhelpful way so he looks away and minds his own calculations. 

“Start up there. Twenty-eight kliks even, then we maintain 27 mpk, 61 degrees 512 mets, 67-127, hold 5, 16-781, 87-541, speed up 8, 61 on.” Prowl says.

Ricochet laughs. “Cool cool, let’s do it! I’m sure you’ll bang on my hood if I’m about to miss a turn.”

“No, I will give you spoken instruction, since you will be going slowly enough to hear me. Why are you laughing?” Trap, 6F%, tac net says.

Ricochet clambers up the uneven rock to the indicated starting point. “We are going to die if either of us frags this up.”

Oh, he’s insane. Prowl vengefully feeds that to his tac net, which finally errors out to merciful silence.

Prowl settles himself again, and ignores Ricochet’s impatient revs. “Time.” 

Ricochet goes, and when he goes his fidgeting evaporates and he runs nearly silent. Prowl’s fan is still grinding, otherwise his instructions would be uncomfortably loud as they creep around the edges of the watchpost. They pass well within sight of the actual watchpost, and Prowl tenses in spite of himself as he watches a slow patrol ramble by. He checked, he knows that the patrol is going the wrong way and will not see them. It is simply odd to watch how closely they skim to various security measures.

His instructions are correct and Ricochet is competent. They clear the watchpost and Prowl has the foresight to grip on tightly before Ricochet again careens off at ill-advised speed.

They are well out of auditory range when Ricochet starts swerving side to side. Prowl clutches through panic and prepares to throw himself to safety (a hole, a sharp rock, specifics immaterial, at this point it is incredible that Ricochet’s wheels did not give out earlier) when he realizes Ricochet is laughing. “Perimeter cleared! See it on the map? Trick question! We’re outta the edge of J6 and it’s time for you to get offa me.”

Prowl does not need to be told to get off. He is dangerously underfueled, in significant pain, and fighting off a crash, and he is positive that walking will be more comfortable than continuing to be assisted by the Con. Ricochet eases to a — not a full stop, but a slow circling, a reasonable enough pace for Prowl to slide off and get his pedes under himself.

Ricochet puts on a burst of speed to cut him off. Prowl draws and arms his blaster and almost shoots him reflexively. 

“Pit, Prowler,” Ricochet laughs as he transforms back to root. He procures a cube out of subspace, a durable sealed one for travel. “Save it for when you’re redlining, you want to keep your fuel pressure low as possible for all the leaks and slag.” 

He tosses the cube and transforms back to alt before Prowl can move to catch it. (Prowl lets the cube hit the ground, actually. It will not break, and he can pick it up when he is no longer trying to keep a blaster fixed on a Decepticon.) 

“Well, 's been a fraggin’ time but this is my stop, don’t forget to stay alive.” Without missing a moment, without even ever coming to a complete stop, Ricochet turns and tears off back towards the Inevitable Advance.

Prowl still has a gun drawn on him. He could easily shoot out a wheel, disable him for — capture or questioning or a proper expression of gratitude. Ricochet does not make _sense_ and Prowl needs (wants) to know — what he told, what he is hiding, why and how and what just happened. He can shoot to capture, and it would be a better outcome for everyone — likely even for Ricochet, unless it is not, if — if he has been honest, if his secrets are relevant or irrelevant in various ways or, if he needs to get back to base — committing to a capture may be a breach of trust or an act of trust and trust is a consideration insofar as motive and— and Prowl is too tired to tell how tactical and personal and ethical assessments are coming out and how each is meant to weigh in this moment. 

He does not take a shot. Ricochet shrinks out of range. Prowl watches the dust settle in the distance as he vanishes.

He is still watching as the dust kicks back up. Ricochet races back into range. Prowl only just had a moment of crisis in which he decided not to shoot him, and can not find it in himself to reassess as Ricochet drives back to Prowl at full speed.

Ricochet transforms back up to root bare mechanometers away from Prowl and runs out the momentum on his pedes. “Just kidding, that's my funny joke couldn't leave my best Autobot buddy out on his own right, s’matter of fact, sorry, sorry!”

Ricochet closes the distance with arms spread for a hug and Prowl only has time to bristle his plating in alarm before Ricochet knees Prowl’s wrist, wrenches the blaster out of his grip, flicks an energon blade out of subspace, stabs Prowl in the cabling of his neck, drops the knife, catches the slice through Prowl’s neck in his freed hand, grabs him across the shoulders, and yanks him around into a secure hold. 

By the time Ricochet’s knife clatters to a stop on the ground next to the cube he left for Prowl, Ricochet has Prowl propped up as a shield, a blaster to his head, and a major fuel line pinched off in his grip.

“You've stabbed me,” Prowl points out. He has never been particularly good with words.

Ricochet could kill him actively or passively in short order, but doing so would be inconsistent with his behavior so far. Prowl dismisses a dozen traps and interrogation scenarios as below threshold plausibility before he strikes on the obvious answer. The Autobot extraction team is here for him and has the area under control — 90%. The only question is whether Ironhide or Wireprong is leading.

“It’s a safe and sane clean lil stab unless you have something to tell me about your weird as slag Praxian ana—”

The fuzzy whine of a plasma burst sounds off out of view. Everything jerks and his cut line stings viciously as Ricochet dodges off to a side and dances a step backwards, wielding Prowl with impressive ease. Prowl feels the heat of a near shot but no pain. Ricochet grunts and Prowl picks up a faint sizzle of bubbling plate and wire, though he does not have the freedom of motion to see exactly how Ricochet’s taken the injury.

“You slaggers shooting at your own officer?” Ricochet drawls. 

Prowl spots a flash of bright paint, hears engines and transformation as mechs fall in around them. Someone (Overcross, 80%) careens in along the way Ricochet came, interception failed by 6 nanos. Ricochet spins the two of them, swaying unpredictably in a loose circle that pauses to acknowledge each of the mechs that have come up surrounding them. 

“Hold fire Cliffjumper!” 

Ironhide leading. Prowl relaxes marginally as possible scenarios cut down and branch up, and overall likelihood of zero-casualty retrieval ticks up. 

Ironhide (massive, red, and bristling with armed weaponry) steps into view moving slowly and keeping his cannon pointed down and his hand up to command a hold. He will be doing this to draw attention while Hound slips around to flank. If Hound gets a clear shot from behind, if Ricochet sees it, if he doesn’t — 

Ricochet twists them to face Hound, clipping through a local hologram. The blaster comes off Prowl’s head and dips through his peripheral vision as Ricochet uses it to gesture or aim a shot. “No closer, no closer, I'm having a very bad day and if I lose grip on this line Prowl here's gonna have a major leak — Prowler where do you put your chance of survival if I lose my grip?”

Prowl cannot turn to glare without breaking said grip on his fuel line, but he stiffens in irritation. He is not a prop and he certainly has no obligation to play into his captor's theatrics.

Ricochet lurches again, bringing Prowl's field of view to bear on a glint of blue optics as a well-hidden Autobot (Tack Off? 40%, he is repainted to camouflage) halts in his approach. The movement tugs on his injuries and enough energon escapes the line in Ricochet's hand to spray a fan of droplets down Prowl’s front.

“32%,” Prowl says through a clenched jaw. 30-40%, at least. Without proper tac net support, his probability precision dips.

Ricochet's grip shifts. Pulled against him, Prowl can feel his balance adjust. "What, where the frag is your mainline?" Ricochet asks quietly, addressing Prowl rather than the group. 

His (left postfilter superior line) mainline is currently pinched in the Con's hand. Ratchet's repair success is simply phenomenal. Prowl does not share this information. He is busy cycling options and optimizing between them _poorly_ and he needs control over this situation and he just needs a _moment_ to figure it out.

Ricochet edges them towards a defensible outcropping of rock. The team stands steady and tracks every movement ready to fire. “Easy, easy, we're just gonna walk off a little ways while y’all all stand over there, then I'mma scarper and Prowl can sulk back over here with a patch. Ok seriously, quit that Cliffjumper!”

Ricochet spins and fires off a shot at Cliffjumper, who — in the jerky view Prowl gets as Ricochet hauls him around — appears to have come closer and begun setting up for a shot, then turns back to Ironhide before he can press the distraction. He does not take aim at Ironhide, but taps his blaster meaningfully against the side of Prowl’s head.

The Autobots are not backing off easily. They are watching Ironhide for direction, and Ironhide, Ironhide is watching Prowl.

“C’mon, Prowl, throw me a bone here, please?” Ricochet mutters.

The team will stand down if he asks, and he gives it 90% that he will be recovered without incident and Ricochet will make it back to the Advance within whatever acceptable parameters he set for himself. Whatever secrets Ricochet has will remain so (90%). Furthermore, hasty covering of tracks or not, he will likely be shot as a traitor, if not on sight (40%) then after investigation within the next megacycle (70%).

Alternatively, he is coming up with 40% for a zero-casualty capture. He glances over at Cliffjumper. Ricochet’s shot hit him squarely in the mount of the primary weapon he'd been powering up. Prowl considers, pushes his protesting tac net to recalculate, and gets 67%. Well below what he should bet a life on, even his own. That would be where the throwing of the bone comes in.

“He's bluffing,” Prowl informs Ironhide. He feels the hand on his line jerk slightly, then reestablish grip.

“Aw, c'mon Prowler I thought we had something!” Ricochet shifts erratically behind him, a hundred movements instantly aborted as weapons power up around them and Ironhide takes a decisive step forwards. A near-silent electric hum at the back of Prowl’s sensors picks up speed and Prowl has the uncomfortable realization that he can hear Ricochet’s spark spinning. Prowl ignores it and talks quickly.

“No one move, no one shoot,” he says. “He will surrender. Capture with caution.”

Ironhide stops where he is and makes a distinctly judgmental expression. He aims a sidearm at Ricochet but does not shoot. No one moves. No one shoots.

Prowl wrests a hand free from Ricochet’s hold and feels along his neck for the sliced mainline, ignoring the queasy feeling that threatens as he slips in the slick of his own processed energon, struggling to find the correct grip or hold steady. Ricochet’s digits dart from under his touch, capture his, and press them into the correct place in a near-instant movement. Prowl does not even lose any more fuel. 

Ricochet keeps his hand at Prowl’s lines, faking the grip he had before. He is no longer fidgeting. He has, in fact, gone almost completely still. Watching Prowl for cues (2i3*%). Prowl extracts himself from Ricochet’s grasp without stepping away. He is no longer restrained, but remains too close for any of the team to have a clear shot.

“I recommend you drop the blaster. And kneel.” He needs trust in a situation where trust would be absurd. He appeals to tactics. “I am not done with you.” 

Ricochet laughs, glitchy and so quiet Prowl can barely hear it. ”Well. What the frag.” He snaps the blaster’s safety on and drops it. 

Prowl snags the blaster from the air with his free hand, steps out, turns and trains the gun back on Ricochet. The unit is somewhat trigger happy and has a mech who just stabbed an ally in the mainline in their sights. Ricochet is safer the more obviously in danger he is. He is being _altruistic_ right now and he holds that thought tight before looking up to face Ricochet’s hate and betrayal — no. No, Ricochet's optics are high pale magenta with stress, but he quirks Prowl an absurd smile as he sinks to his knees.

Ricochet puts his hands, one bright with Prowl’s energon, up.

“Don't move. Don't even look up.” Prowl says softly.

-

Ricochet doesn’t actually need to be told to look harmless but in spite of himself he clings to the instruction. This — this is really bad. He may like a little chaos in his life, but he needs something to work off of, a plan, a job, a sliver of understanding of what's going to happen next.

He's a Con. A Con with some answers Prowl wants, for what little that’s worth against being outnumbered, outgunned and straight up fragging captured by Autobots. He has to remember that. It's been a wild cycle, but he's back in the solid, heavy world of inescapable consequences and bigger and more powerful mechs who are writing the rules. He's a Con again, and he finds the calm he trained up in the bare rooms and cramped quarters and fine sheens of vital energon. He kneels. 

He's floating, shorting out against himself, staring at the ground and listening to the clang of pedes on the rough ground, grasping for a next step, an idea, an option, _hope_ but all his options ain’t been viable since before he saw them, good endings like distant stars, long burnt out and now flicking to darkness at the stasis cuffs go on.

He doesn’t look at the weapons pointed at him, doesn’t look up when the unit closes in on him to disarm, disable, contain. If they're going to kill him right now, looking isn't going to make a difference. He just. Surrenders.


	6. Chapter 6

This is bad. Ricochet lets himself have a single moment of regret — puts it on driving Prowl all the way out to the extraction site instead of making him walk the last kil — before he slips himself into damage control mode. He’s got — he’s got nothing, and at least it ain’t complicated, holding still and hoping not to die. 

“Disarm, dis—” Prowl doesn’t step back as the team comes in around him. Ricochet’s still getting a real close study on of the ground but he’s near enough to Prowl to hear clear as day when the big Bot gets between them and pulls Prowl back some — making some distance between an injured teammate and a potential threat, and isn’t that fragging hilarious?

“Prowl, you’re down for medical,” Ironhide breaks in. “Disarm, disable, contain.”

The black and green mech who’d tried to flank them — and frag him if that isn’t Hound of the Primal fragging Vanguard — grabs him and holds him securely while the camo-painted one — looks kinda like Track Off — cuffs him. When the cuffs click shut and the stasis field comes up, Ricochet feels one of his makeshift patches short out and dump charge into the next relay and slag but it takes down the patch and overloads a bypass and — 

Systems strained by a rough drive and a few layers of hacky patch jobs seize up and it _hurts_ but worse than that he spasms. He moves suddenly enough to break a grip — no, no, frag — the mech behind him reacts fast and Ricochet is shoved hard to the ground and pinned and that's the whine of a 45 grade ion rifle powering up and slag but how many people has he seen die like this but he can't do _anything_.

The moment drags on and nothing happens. Ricochet _itches_ with imaginary gunfire.

“Primus, do you want to die? Don't. Move.” Ironhide sounds close enough to touch, not that Ricochet can move a fragging met.

Ricochet doesn’t so much as vent. “Sorry,” he says, and it comes out so quiet and full of static he’s not sure anyone heard. 

Practiced hands frisk over him and shuck off any obvious weaponry — the rifle he’d stolen off Gracey, and a handful of knives in easy reach. He knows what’s coming next so he doesn’t tense or flinch at the hot pinches of comms and integrated weaponry getting clipped, or the sharp twinges of disabled subspace systems. They’re rough with speed and Ricochet finds himself grateful they seem to be under some kind of time pressure. They don’t have time now to empty and go through his subspace or to play around while they disable him. Beyond a cursory brush, no one even digs at the fresh plasma burn in his side. 

“Check plating as well as subspace,” Prowl calls from — Pit they’ve moved him almost all the way across the hill. Ricochet is keenly aware that he’s alive on Prowl’s interest and he kicks down instinctive uneasiness at getting too separated from him.

Hound makes another pass over him, sweeping under Ricochet’s plating and divesting him of all of his fighting knives, most of his useful blades, and a good chunk of his hacking kit. Ricochet obligingly shuffles plating for access before it can get wrenched aside and tries very hard to look like he has no idea how slaggin’ _shady_ his toys are. 

Hound tosses everything into a pile just out of reach and when he’s done he shifts to keep Ricochet securely pinned. Ricochet is disappointed to be able to confirm Hound’s reputation as generally competent, at least enough so to keep a prisoner secure while everyone else is paying more attention to the mech with a pretty dramatic stab wound.

Ricochet’s disarmed, disabled, and contained, and he’ll keep. He lies limp on the off chance he’ll get someone’s guard down. 

Prowl’s in worse shape. The neck wound is the flashiest, limned with fresh energon. His stabbed doorwing is nasty and painful and should be messing up his gyro systems something fierce, but it’s probably the cable and circuit damage he’s picked up as an interrogated prisoner on the Advance that’s got him slumping and weak. Ricochet watches Ironhide and the Autobot he doesn’t recognize go over Prowl’s various injuries, cataloging damage and applying basic field patches. 

“Can you move with that?” Ironhide asks, peering at the severed line.

“No,” Prowl says, jerking slightly in counterbalance as the unnamed mech — the plum-colored mid-weight who’d tried to chase Ricochet down when he went for Prowl — plucks at damaged plating. He’s got a basic repair kit but he’s clumsy with it — medic-2 at most.

The first aid is more interesting than it has any right to be and feels oddly like it’s happening at distance, in a parallel world Ricochet hasn’t quite finished falling into. Ricochet recognizes that he’s distracting himself. Someone is going to make a decision, soon, and he's going to die here or be trussed up to die later. He’s hoping hard for later, one more ‘later’ in a chain of lucky breaks that he knows is gonna run out eventually, but — later, please.

Prowl’s angling for later, bless him, but it’s Ironhide’s op and Prowl’s probably going to need to get cleared for tampering by a mnemosurgeon before his protection’s worth much. It’ll be Ironhide’s call, unless Cliffjumper’s as impulsive as he looks and twitches on the trigger. 

Ironhide turns to the distance and looks like he’s having a conversation when he comms, with zero sense of subtlety. But then, he has no reason to hide what he’s doing. “Ratch is coming, and he don’t want us fragging around with a clamp before he gets here if you already got a good hold.”

Prowl starts to nod before he catches himself and manages to avoid exacerbating the bleeding wound through his neck. “I can maintain my physical composure for at least seven breems starting now. There is a 74% chance I will crash before completing a full debrief. My intelligence largely remains secure, save for information on operation JW-8R.” Prowl winces very slightly as the first aider does something to his damaged wing.

“How’d they—” Ironhide hisses a quiet swear. Huh, Kaonite. That’s not well-known. “Soundwave. Already? How—”

“No, Ricochet.” Prowl flicks his good wing to indicate Ricochet, like he’s physically pushing Ricochet’s fishtailing world to spin that much faster.

Urgh, and here he’d pegged Prowl as the type to need a few introductions for a name to stick.

“Right,” Ironhide says slowly, turning his attention. “And who the frag is Ricochet, Prowl?”

The world is _spinning_ and it’s been spinning but it’s not fun anymore and frag if that isn’t a sparkling’s thought — he made this call and sometimes a risk doesn’t pan out. This is bad — this is bad but what’s next. 

Ricochet clicks his plating, the closest he can get to a polite wave while he’s pinned in the dust. “The mech who was supposed to be interrogating him. I covered his shift and—”

“Ironhide, this is Ricochet,” Prowl says. “Comms officer 3rd or 4th class. He is a competent mnemoscraper, an adept fugitive guide, and a relentless liar.”

He knows he never gave the name. He makes a choked sound. “Naw, I’m sayin’—”

“I strongly advise you to stop saying anything right now. Ironhide, Ricochet has pulled some information on operation JW-8R, the precise details of which must be ascertained. He will come with us.” 

Oh that sounds like later, but he doesn’t let the relief hit him hard enough to make him stupid. There are a million ways for things to twist from here and even if some of them are starting to look okay most of them are still slag.

Backup — medic and escort, gotta be — shows up. An ambulance hurtles in and transforms to root as a utility vehicle draws in after him. The medic’s got doctor’s decals and looks vaguely familiar. He glances between Ricochet and Prowl even as he marches towards Prowl. “Colors!” he barks.

“Still green,” Hound says from right the frag on top of Ricochet. He startles for no good reason. It’s not like he’d forgotten Hound was there, but that voice is way too close, and he didn’t catch Hound getting injured — must’ve been before the standoff, please be from before the standoff. Ricochet hopes he didn’t hurt the mech pinning him. Sets a bad tone.

“Still orange,” the first aider chimes while the doctor takes over on Prowl.

“Can you get my comms back up?” Prowl asks.

The doctor grunts and does something to Prowl’s side that causes a loud snapping noise but no visible reaction in Prowl. “Sure, sure, I can do that or I can save your damn life — look up and exvent slowly for me.” He works quickly and keeps a quiet running commentary on what he’s fixing, what he’s going to fix later, and how idiotic it was for Prowl to try to transform on a misaligned T-cog.

Ricochet cycles down his racing systems. His hackjob patches have mostly simmered down to a stable type of broken, after the initial stasis-field-induced glitch. Everything is working about as well as it’s going to work, but there are a few soft reworks he can do without moving to get proper dexterity back and deal with some of the errors still whining at him.

Hound’s got him at the solid points of his limbs, which is the right way to pin someone, but means he’s not going to be able to feel any EM disruptions Ricochet introduces to the stasis cuffs. He cautiously feels them out, tapping at the circuitry with the faintest touch of his electromagnets, checking responses to try to get a hold of what the exact make and setup is.

The doctor crouches into his space before he’s actually done anything to the cuffs and Ricochet starts back on reflex, which does nothing but make everyone immediately tense. Ricochet hasn’t done anything that should show to a non-invasive scan. He’s fine, he’s being good. He doesn’t shift to try to conceal his mods, because he’d only do that if he were trying something and he isn’t. What the frag does the medic want?

They weren’t expecting him, and they weren’t expecting Prowl to be significantly compromised, based on Ironhide’s assumption that no one less than Soundwave would be able to get information. Their standby medic for this mission is almost definitely not a mnemosurgery specialist. He could still be good enough to try to scrape info now, but Prowl really does need a medbay. Later, c’mon, Ricochet just needs to put off being executed until later.

The doctor slowly leans into his field of view to make deliberate optic contact, which Ricochet manages to avoid. “I’m going to scan you and then induce stasis for transport, understand?”

The dead end medic! It’s the dead end medic! Ratchet. Of... Ultirex? Ratchet, for sure. He’d, well, Meister had... stolen a lot of supplies from him, back in the day. Pit. Ricochet doesn’t recognize him, he decides.

It’s fraggin’ surreal hearing him explain himself like Ricochet’s a patient. “Understood, sir.” Ricochet tracks down his stasis overrides and failsafes and starts shutting them down. They retrigger in response to stress, which makes the whole process sort of a fragging production.

Ratchet waves Hound away and Ricochet feels him let go and back about six inches off. He feels the buzzing wash of a high resolution medical scan. Ricochet flinches, with enough force to make the stasis field thrum and his internals shudder.

Ratchet hums and Ricochet hears the note of annoyance in it. He doesn’t look up.

After a long moment of consideration, Ratchet stows the scanner — which could mean he got a good scan off anyway, but if he did, done is done and hey, at least Ricochet’s still not dead.

Ricochet’s relief is completely silent in his body language and also incredibly short-lived because Ratchet immediately sticks his digits into the hole in Ricochet’s side.

There’s no time for fear to build though, as Ratchet seals and patches the worst of the damage and slaps a protective mesh over the top before Ricochet properly registers what’s happening. Ratchet doesn’t stop at the plasma burn, picks a rock out of a spandrel, leans around him to look at older damage. He makes a disapproving noise and Ricochet’s sparkrate hitches. “Did you get these patches from a medic or a slagging interrogator?” he grumbles as he taps at a poorly sealed join on Ricochet’s underplating.

Ricochet chokes a little static. There is no actual way he can tell he’s an interrogator by weld technique, is there? Sure, they’re sloppy, but come on, it’s a temp patch while his self repair builds up from the base.

“Fragging malpractice, is what it is,” Ratchet says, to himself, Ricochet’s pretty sure. And by the time he properly registers that it hadn’t been a real question in the first place — Ricochet is way off his game at the moment — Ratchet is plugging in to a medical port and a stasis chip hits him with a burst of sedative.

Ricochet frantically overrides the failsafe that tries to kick back against the stasis — panic and exhaustion roil in him like acid until his sense of the world drops out entirely. 

Nothing hurts. His sense of balance skews and drops. Moving probably. Bein’ carried. It’s fine. ‘S nice, really.

-

His systems gnaw through the sedation gradually. Faster than feels right at first — Splice musta forgotten to refonig, regocon, to do that thing to his antivirals. He tries to ping his medic and finds his comm cut. Aww. Ow. The gnawing picks up pace and he doesn’t try to tell anyone about it.

He waits out the worst of the disorientation before he tries anything clever. It’s 3rd cycle 5th mega, he’s captured by Autobots, being moved by Autobots, and his name is Ricochet. Honestly takes longer to remember the fraggin' orientation questions than the answers.

Stealth options on his optics aren’t working, never fixed since Prowl swiped him, pit, yesterday? Time flies.

There’s no way they put Ricochet in the ambulance when Prowl’d have to be in it, so he decides he’s probably safe from medical monitoring and finally lets his repeatedly muted purge protocol go nuts on the sedative code. While the last of the grogginess clears, he preps his profile.

He’s already identified as Ricochet, mnemoscraper, which is unfortunate. Prowl saw him in action enough that he’s not gonna be able to hide the part where he's a dodgy fragger anyway. Fine, fine, makes it easier to justify not partitioning off his more useful knowledge.

Ricochet can still cut the older slag, swap it for an MTO origin — Alley-Oop of the Siege of Tyger Pax, Tyger to friends, Ricochet to newer friends. Tyger is one of the smallest memory profiles he has, kid lived for under a cycle so matching the paper trail is easy as lie and then he’s just gotta dump memories until he’s got the right amount for the official timeline — not that the official timelines ain’t half inconsistent already. Ricochet’s a boring and harmless Con techie with a naive talent for spy slag and it’s all about focusing on that. 

He mocks up some whole cloth memories and tries them out, even though he already knows he’s gonna have to use real slag. Autobot mnemocore is real good — real skilled, and likely to break through his shell anyway and make this whole exercise pointless. Even if it’s flawless, no matter how he sets his story, he _messed up_ catching as much attention as he has and Prowl’s already got enough on him to figure out weak points — to find leverage. He’s, frag there are so many ways to break him.

He catches himself before his vents hitch or he tenses in frustration. He’s a lump of heavily sedated mech. He’s not thinking about anything, not worrying about who’s gonna interrogate him or what he’s gonna give up before he dies.

He grabs memories of a doomed ship with his amica on board — Saxo and Ricochet each got some, but Meister’s happens to cleave closest to what he’s saying for the Wandering Star. Reluctantly he snags those. 

He doesn’t hard partition anything yet, ain’t about to frag around with his own processor while there’s still sedative slinking around up in there. Or at all until the last possible minute, if he’s honest. He’s hoping he’ll see the interrogation coming, and have a klik then. If he can swing it, he’d rather die knowing who he is.

The steady clip of an urgent drive turns into a stop-and-start punctuated by chatter for intake into the actual base. They’ve arrived. Ricochet pulls up his hard wipe protocols, checks it for compatibility, and confirms it’ll work. Just in case.

They pull into base. He’s pretty sure. He can’t do a good stasis impression without keeping most of his sensors low. Best he can tell, they’re coming in through the north entrance, and he’s in the middle of the pack. Most of the group peels off early on. That’ll be the medical emergency expediting security. Ricochet hears syncopated grinds in Ironhide’s engine that’s gotta be impatience as they roll through security checkpoints.

Finally, they break off until it’s just him and three Autobots. Ironhide transforms around him easily and hands him off to Hound. “Hound, you ‘n Cliff get the Con to Aux Bay C and sit on him ‘till I ping ya,” he says before turning and revving off. 

Ricochet’s a half-class too big for Hound to carry him easily. He slumps awkwardly over his shoulders. Hound gamely schleps him along.

“C’n walk,” he mumbles the moment Ironhide is gone.

“He’s faking!” Cliffjumper squawks, underscored by the whine of a weapon powering up. “The 'Con’s awake!” 

Ricochet’s spark swirls uncomfortably, but he stays a relaxed mass on Hound’s back. He unsteadily tilts his head towards the sound and squints an unfocused crack of red optic open at Cliffjumper. “Yu. Yer fake,” he slurs, then drops his head back down.

Ricochet’s gain is way up, so he picks up the near-subsonic hum as Cliffjumper activates his vocalizer without yet having figured out how to be offended by that statement. Ricochet slumps clumsily to shield the wound on his side a little better. Hound’s grabbing him by his good side and it’s making him feel extra vulnerable.

They’ve definitely come in through the north entrance, and are heading down a perimeter hallway towards the center of the installment. Ricochet doesn’t know the layout of the Steel Promise near so well as the Advance and this looks like a freshly constructed installation anyway. It’s not the quickest way anywhere, makes sense as a way to drag someone you don’t particularly want an audience for. Autobots tend to like a little more discretion with the unsavory slag.

Cliffjumper finally finds a reaction. “I’m fake? I’ll show you—”

Hound laughs. “Don’t take it so personally, Cliff. Or are you really going to argue with a drugged up 'Con right now?”

Cliffjumper draws himself up and Ricochet tracks the big slagging gun he’s still got charged up.

Ricochet tinks a shoulder against Hound. “Hey. His feelings are legititimate. Legititam.” He gives up with a puff of air. “Where are we going?” he whines. The perimeter hall spits them out behind some buildings — logistics supply, primary med, and small assembly point if he’s not totally turned around.

Everything he’s seen is flat straightaways. If he kicks free and bolts, he’s gonna get shot, caught, or some combination. Cool, cool. 

“Over here,” Hound says. “It’ll be boring. Go back to sleep, and we’ll wake you later.” Huh. Is Hound friendly? Polite at least.

They take him to a shady little side room in the extended med complex. It’s clearly a side hallway that’s been converted to a single-berth medbay. The repair berth takes most of the space and a few narrow seats against a wall leave a narrow pathway up to a big ominous slagging door. Hound drops him in a chair and takes the one beside him, keeping an arm slung over Ricochet. Cliffjumper hops up onto the berth to scowl at them and also keep a gun pointed at him.

It’s stocked like an actual medbay here — bins of parts and meshes and gels — and there ain't even restraints on the berth. ‘Course, like any well-stocked medbay, there’s everything you need to take a mech apart in here. It’s cluttered with overstocked medical supplies that are still neatly sorted, clean but with too much dirt to feel overly sterile. It’s a cozy medical style and Ricochet isn’t sure if that makes it a better or worse place to potentially be stripped alive for parts. Aw, Pit, if he’s on the fence he may as well appreciate it. 

“Wha are we waiting f’r?” He asks, and he’s a fragging master, he sounds petulant and not at all terrified. 

Hound stills. “The doctor’s going to look you over more closely while we decide where to put you,” he says softly.

“Thanks,” Ricochet says, and means it. He wriggles into a slightly more comfortable position. “Hey, what’s your name?” 

“I’m Hound,” Hound says. “What’s yours?” This is somehow both one of the most pointless and most delicate introductions Ricochet has ever experienced.

“‘M Ricochet, and it is very nice to meet you,” he over-enunciates, in part because he’s gotta get Ricochet’s Iacon accent back in place and in part because he knows it makes him sound extra drunk.

Ricochet pries polite smalltalk out of Hound and even gets Cliffjumper in with a comment about his gun — gunners like to talk about their guns, even if he’s surly and likes to pepper the talk with threats on Ricochet’s life and bodily integrity. 

Eventually, he feels the ghost of a signal on his sore comms systems. Hound straightens and stands. Ricochet stumbles up to his feet before he can get picked up again, leaning on Hound like an overcharged friend, ignoring the ever-present feeling of Cliffjumper’s stupid rifle pointed at him. 

They go through the other door, which turns out to lead into what looks like a medbay waiting room. Blaster is there, looking at a datapad. Ricochet curls in towards Hound enough to obscure his brand, and looks down. They’re walking past. If they were gonna wait, they would wait in the other room. They’re walking past and they just gotta do it before Blaster looks up.

“Hey, Blaster,” Hound calls. Yep, Hound is friendly but turns out Ricochet hates that.

“Heya Hound, Cliffjumper.” Blaster looks up with a grin and an easy wave. 

Ricochet’s looking down, and only catches a peripheral hint of how Blaster’s expression twitches. Confused recognition, he’s pretty sure.

“Who’s that?” Blaster asks.

“Not sure yet,” Hound says, with a little shrug.

Ricochet picks at the EM pins of his stasis cuffs. He won’t be able to run, he’s still hobbled and inhibited, and he’s not about to be able to shrug off the physical restraints.

Blaster gets up and studies Ricochet. “Hey. Hey, we’ve met, haven’t we?”

Ricochet force cycles his fight or flight response down. It takes a hard override that leaves him feeling way too cold. He offers Blaster a look of reserved confusion and as much of Crystal City accent as he can inject without setting off Hound and Cliffjumper. “Nooo? I get that rather a lot. Common frametype, I’m afraid.” He risks meeting Blaster’s gaze. It’s a mistake. 

Ricochet sees recognition click and he pops the stasis circuit on his cuffs and ducks as Blaster charges him with a furious shout. 

Blaster stumbles over him and Ricochet lunges past — dodging is a great way to slag someone off and make the beating worse but there’s a first wave of fury here that Ricochet’s hoping will fade into something less berserk if he can just dodge a few more grabs that far as he can tell are aiming at straight killing him. 

Blaster snags him by the restraints and slams him back to the wall, which isn’t properly bolted up and deforms with a crash and disrupts Blaster’s grip enough for Ricochet to yank him forward and encourage his momentum past his balance so he can twist around. He wriggles around to his left and sticks close, keeping Blaster between him and Cliffjumper and Hound, who are scrambling around to either side. 

Ricochet feels Hound grab him, decides that ain’t what he wants, and lets Blaster get a hold and yank him out of Hound’s grip. He jerks to headbutt an upper arm that’s coming in, hears a growl of frustration that indicates he’s now just slagging him off more — ‘kay, time — and quits struggling so hard. A dizzying crack and jolt of pain rocks him — solid punch to his face — and he twists, focused on protecting his hands, optics, and plasma burn. 

“What the actual frag is happening here?” A roar shatters and freezes the scene.

Arms grab him from behind and haul him back. Another stasis field spills over him set to a much higher setting that has his systems popping all over again. Hound and Cliffjumper are both on him — and, slag, they caught that thing with cuffs. 

Ironhide is between him and Blaster, shoving Blaster back with an arm. 

“He’s a fragging Decepticon,” Blaster spits.

“Yeaaah, we’d noticed!” Ironhide growls. “Which is why he’s a prisoner, restrained and disarmed.” He sounds _furious._

“But—” Blaster cuts himself off, and smelt that’s actual confusion he’s got.

Ricochet’s world lurches and rearranges horribly — ‘but they don’t keep prisoners here’ is how that sentence goes, and he’d kinda knew that but he’d thought maybe this all meant he was wrong but he wasn’t wrong — he wasn’t wrong that they don’t take prisoners at least, he thought for a klik there he was a prisoner and looks like that’s wrong and maybe the actual only worse thing than being taken prisoner is being taken as not a prisoner. Hysterical laughter bubbles at the back of his vocalizer.

Blaster snarls at the sound and starts a step towards him. Ironhide glares him back.

“Slagger puts down cassettes,” Blaster says. “Specializes in them, and he laughs while he does it. Fragger was laughing while he pulled Eject's arm off.”

“Eject was trying to stab me with that arm,” Ricochet can’t help but point out. He does choke back the laughter, though, that’s not gonna trigger happy memories for the carrier. “And I’m sorry I’m an inappropriate laugher! It’s how I deal with stress.”

Ricochet feels everyone’s attention fasten on him. Ironhide narrows his optics. Blaster growls. Ricochet wonders _why_ he fragging _talks._ He settles into Hound and Cliffjumper’s hold and looks down. Fight response can plausibly burn out sedation, and the next part of that is exhausted weakness. It... ain’t hard to model.

“Did he attack you?” Ironhide asks.

There's a pause that stretches long enough for Ricochet to change his mind multiple times on whether he’s understanding the question.

“No sir he did not,” Blaster finally says.

Ricochet goes over his knowledge of command structure at the Promise and tries to figure out how much say Blaster is going to have in his fate. 

“In!” Ironhide snaps, and Ricochet hears Blaster enter the medbay.

“You two are dismissed. I’ll ping you for debrief later.” Hound and Cliffjumper release him. Hound drops him gently, which lets Ricochet keep himself upright, and he keeps himself from swaying through pure desperation. 

“What was that about?” Ironhide asks. His voice is low and still real angry.

Ricochet draws his plating in, nice and slow and non-threatening. Ironhide is _big_ and Ricochet knows fine that size and danger ain’t the same thing but the massive slagger is still scary.

Ricochet wants to look up to gauge what Ironhide is looking for, but he can’t afford to slag him off any more. He exhales. “I work on sensor banks. Half of my job is” — was — “knocking red cassettes down and picking purple ones up. Your carrier knows me from memory dumps, I assume.”

“Sure, then.” Ironhide steps into his space and snaps his fingers for attention and Ricochet jerks his gaze up. “And who exactly are you again?”

Fresh scuffs on his face, backed against a dented wall, staring like cornered prey at Ironhide, a weak laugh finally escapes Ricochet. “Ricochet of Tyger Pax, Comms Officer 4th Class, worst fragging luck.” Nobody at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello this was 4k+ words of someone holding still and then getting punched in the face


	7. Chapter 7

Ironhide’s got no grief with Intelligence, in general. He likes honesty, fair fights, and the kind of enemies that you shoot instead of chat with, but he’s no fool. Good intel and well-planned ops keep mechs alive. He respects that. He respects that, and he reminds himself how much he respects that when he finds himself dealing with some Primus forsaken _scheme_ with Prowl and mnemoscrapers and weaselly little mechs who take two pairs of stasis cuffs to restrain. 

The Con stands at attention with an almost unhealthy tension, optics pointed somewhere past Ironhide and half-glazed. He’s stiff, sparking at the seams, trying to swallow hysterical laughter. He should still be in stasis. Some people wake quicker than others, but Ratchet didn’t misjudge a dose this bad. Ironhide mutes a growl of irritation.

He steps in and the Con tenses and twitches like he’s ready for a fight. Ironhide watches the Con’s balance and weight for signs of an attack even as he minds his own body language, moves slow and obvious about what he’s doing. He drops a hand on his shoulder, ignores the click of alarm it scares up, and turns the smaller mech to check his restraints. 

Two slaggin’ pairs of stasis cuffs, ayup. One pair is dialed way up. The Con’s got the light full body tremor that usually means it’s set too high. Ironhide checks the other pair and confirms the circuit is fried before he takes it off and subspaces it. He trusts Hound’s call with the setting and lets the Con shiver as he turns him back to check his face.

Blaster got him good. The Con — Ricochet, huh — has gone still and steady and doesn’t flinch or protest when Ironhide grabs his chin and prods gently around the injury. Looks like it’s gonna ache for a while, but nothing grinds like it’s broken. That’s good for Blaster. That half-clocked boombox is in some damn trouble as soon as Ironhide gets a moment. He hasn’t had many of those lately.

“Did he do anything else?” Ironhide tries to sound calm and reassuring, but he’s slag at it and knows it.

“No sir,” the Con says instantly, without any inflection.

Ironhide eyes the dented wall a bit off to the side. “Are you lying?” He doesn’t know why the frag he’d lie about that but Ironhide doesn’t know how he thinks.

“No sir, I — that — I think the wall was just weak,” the Con falters almost back into a normal demeanor.

Probably was. It’s prefab slag and not built for shoving prisoners up against — he is going to _flay_ Blaster, see if he doesn’t. But first.

He comms Ratchet ::Please tell me you’re ready for the Con, and you’re putting him somewhere Blaster’s not going to walk by on his way out.:: 

::Sure. Room 3, meet you there::

Ironhide gets a leading hold on Ricochet’s shoulder and tugs him along slightly. In his experience, you want to keep a physical hold on this kind of mech. Ricochet follows, then stumbles against him as Ironhide abruptly stops, wheels on him, and leans in close. Ironhide has zero problem growling at an injured mech already having a bad day if it prevents something stupid down the line.

Ricochet meets his glare with a blank expression that doesn’t do a slaggin’ thing to put Ironhide at ease. His plating is drawn in close enough that the heavy stasis field crackles where edges touch.

“Let’s be clear,” Ironhide says. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. You ain’t in trouble for it. Fraggin’ breathe!” 

Ricochet rattles a vent at the command, without a flicker of expression.

“But you’re a Con and a liar and a squirmy fragger,” Ironhide continues. “Keep breathing! I’m watching you. Don’t even think about doing anything funny.” If he tries anything, Ironhide will put him down without hesitation and everyone’s shift will get much simpler. The only thing leaving him _irritable_ is the concern that the Con can get Ratchet before Ironhide gets the Con. 

Ricochet nods slowly. “Understood sir.” 

Ironhide gives him a low engine growl for good measure before he hauls him in towards Room 3.

-

“In!” Prowl can hear Ironhide yell from across the medbay. He winces and dials down his sensors. Ratchet flicks him lightly on the knee. 

“You want to be miscalibrated?” Ratchet scolds without looking up from the frankly absurd pile of medical equipment Prowl is hooked into. His tone brooks no disagreement, but his volume is low, respectful of sound sensitivity. 

Prowl brings his sensors back up and earns an approving hum. 

“There you go.” Ratchet finishes the calibration program and tilts his head to a comm ping. “Blaster at the door.”

“Let him in.”

The door slides open and Blaster enters and salutes. “You wanted to see me?” There is a clipped edge to his words that Prowl cannot read.

Prowl nods. “What was that out there? We heard shouting.” 

Blaster grimaces. “There’s a 'Con, he’s—”

“Ratchet, get out.” Prowl sits straight and cuts Blaster off before he can share anything sensitive. The room goes still. 

Ratchet looks up at Prowl, very slowly. “Excuse me?” he says.

Prowl wilts microscopically. “I apologize,” he says. “Blaster, please hold on a moment. Ratchet, may I be cleared for light conversation?”

Prowl has already tried and failed to talk Ratchet into letting him back to his office, where he has easier access to all the records and databases he needs to check, as well as the security he wants for this particular conversation.

“Don’t give me that,” Ratchet says. Then he connects a wire and a hollow sensation echoes briefly in Prowl’s mind. ::Your encrypted comms should be working now, you paranoid sparkheap.::

::Thank you.:: Prowl honestly needs to be able to work, and for all that he complained about it, Ratchet prioritized a partial comm repair. 

::Thank me by not bringing me insane pet projects.:: Ratchet steps away from Prowl’s berthside and pauses. He considers Prowl for a long moment. ::I am not here to intake prisoners. I’m going to make sure it’s safe to have him on base, but I am not going to keep fixing someone so that you can keep hurting him, do you understand me?::

Briefly, Prowl does not understand. Then he does. Ratchet thinks that he is going to torture Ricochet. It is an appalling assumption to make of someone (it is an option Prowl has, of course, considered). He thinks the correct way to express what he feels is indignant flaring and perhaps some yelling. (It is not _better_ to never have unethical ideas occur to you than it is to consider and dismiss them.) He frowns fractionally. ::It isn’t like that,:: he says. ::I simply want to talk with him.:: 

::Talk,:: Ratchet repeats. ::Then what?::

It depends on what happens, but Prowl is loath to admit lack of an overarching plan for the scenario. He is 60, 70% sure that Ricochet is not —

The machine monitoring his systems beeps loudly and repeatedly, making everyone jump.

“Nevermind! Forget I asked! Tell me later. Hey, Prowl! Prowl! ATS down, look at me.” 

Prowl dutifully cycles tac net down and rests his attention on Ratchet until the machine quiets.

Ratchet sighs. “This is the room we use for Red Alert, it should be secure. I had to turn off one of his scrambling gizmos, because I need the ping off that monitor,” he says with a gesture towards the heap of monitors. ::You’re still in critical condition, Prowl.::

“I understand,” Prowl says. Hence the importance of finishing time-sensitive work before he crashes.

Ratchet gives him a last suspicious look before he leaves. He pauses at the door. ::And, Prowl?::

::Yes?:: Prowl braces.

::I’m glad you’re back. We were worried about you.::

Prowl blinks at that and Ratchet is gone before he can respond. That’s not — his tac systems pick up and start trying to access medically muted threads. Prowl reprioritizes and forces his attention to Blaster.

::What were you saying about the Decepticon?:: he asks.

Blaster shuffles in place. He is uncomfortable about something, or perhaps distracted. ::There’s a 'Con on base. I mean, you know that. You know that, right?::

Prowl waits for him to continue. When he does not, Prowl gives a belated nod of encouragement.

::Yeah, of course you do. Um, yeah, well...:: Blaster sets his stance. ::He’s a fragging psycho and I punched him in the face.::

Prowl sits up, ignoring the mild tone that starts up from the pile of monitors. ::You recognized him? I found no records,::he says, gesturing emphasis with his datapad. (Prowl made sure to pull and double check the latest database version as soon as Ratchet had his hands full re-running his mainline.)

::Did you file intel?:: If this mystery is a clerical error, Prowl will have so much backpedaling to do.

Blaster gestures — frustration? ::’Course! Fragger’s a menace. Never got a des, but he should be in the fragmentary files. Check the tag ‘psycho perimeter guard,’ oughta be entries from at least DRTQ-12 and Iacon West.::

::How is he a menace?:: Prowl asks. ‘Psycho perimeter guard’ gives enough results to make Ratchet’s medical program kill his unsampled query.

::He puts down cassettes.:: Blaster crosses his arms, almost defensive. ::And he’s a bully. Laughs while he does it.::

There is a 9— high likelihood Ricochet has worked extensively on sensor banks, which would facilitate regular engagement with cassetibots. Prowl comes up with a blurred but recognizable image capture of Ricochet, springing from the shadows and reaching for the camera. His expression in the image is... deranged. 

::Yes, he does seem to emote inappropriately,:: Prowl muses. ::His designation is Ricochet. Comms Officer 3rd or 4th Class. Probably 4th.::

Blaster blinks and taps his commlink. ::Confidential?:: 

::Secret,:: Prowl says. ::Can you ask Jazz about him?::

Blaster’s optics brighten slightly in interest. ::Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. He’s been lively lately, might even answer.::

-

Ratchet leaves Prowl to whatever meeting he decided was worth straining a processor already on its last legs. His remaining damage needs careful rest and self-repair. Ratchet is a practical mech. He’s just hoping he’ll be at a good stopping point when Prowl crashes.

He crosses the medbay and enters room 3, where he finds Ironhide terrorizing a light vehicle frame with a fresh bruise across his face.

That’s new. “Cliffjumper?” 

Ironhide growls. “Blaster, believe it or not.”

Ratchet supposes Blaster’s got a bit of a temper on him. Still, a surprise, and not the kind he’s feeling kindly towards today. He hates treating prisoners. If they’re not aggressive and malicious, they’re terrified and suspicious.

The Decepticon they’ve captured — his patient — is sat up on the berth, gaze set on the floor somewhere between them. He looks like he might be dissociating some. Ratchet can’t really blame him. He’s shaking slightly with obvious fine motor circuit disruption and Ironhide’s got a hand on his shoulder like he might bolt.

Ratchet suppresses a sigh. “Hello. Ricochet, right? I’m Ratchet, and I’m here to set your comms, weapons, and subspace systems, fit you with a tracker and inhibitors, and get a general sense of your medical condition. Any questions?”

“No sir,” Ricochet tells the floor, polite as anything. Terrified and suspicious it is, then.

Ratchet runs a basic scan. Ricochet flinches the same way he had at the first one. He’s either horribly unused to friendly medical interactions, or some of his components are sensitive to something in the scan profile. Either way, Ratchet can’t make out much fine detail through the sheer tension wracking his frame. He frowns. ”Why are your restraints set so high?” 

“He killed two mechs twice his weight in under a breem this morning,” Ironhide says mildly. 

“Impressive,” Ratchet says, glossing over a pang of nervousness. He’s not a fresh recruit, he knows Cons. “You going to attack your medic in the middle of a hostile base?”

“No sir.”

Ratchet gestures at him theatrically for Ironhide and ignores the displeased look he gets in return. 

“Let’s see your integrated systems.” When Ratchet approaches to get a closer look, Ironhide tightens his grip and Ricochet shies back hard.

Ratchet pauses, and Ricochet gasps a ragged vent when he realizes what he’s done. He deliberately leans forward again and relaxes his plating for access with what looks suspiciously like some medically inadvisable overrides to his autonomic fear response. “Sorry,” he breathes.

Through a gap in his plating, Ratchet spots an internal servo grinding against a clipped wire as some threat response subsystem repeatedly tries and fails to arm. He sighs.

“Ironhide, out.”

Ironhide laughs. “Not a fraggin’ chance.” ::Prowl puts it at 68% he’s ops. Don’t trust a fraggin’ thing about him.::

Ratchet glares at Ironhide with the unimpressed judgement of a mech who has picked shrubbery out of a triplechanger’s aft. ::He’s too scared of you. I can’t get a good read, and his weapons keep trying to arm.::

Ironhide makes a face like he doesn’t see how that’s his problem, but his grip on Ricochet eases. ::Just chip him and leave his weapons frayed, then.::

Ratchet _snarls_. ::Absolutely not. Get out::

Ironhide frowns and Ratchet catches a flicker of guilt in his stubborn set. ::Ratchet, he’s _dangerous_.::

Ratchet doesn’t doubt it. And he doesn’t doubt that Ironhide has legitimate security concerns. But Ricochet is clipped and cuffed and starved. ::I’m dangerous, Ironhide. I can handle a patient.::

“Out!” he puts the full force of medical authority into the command. Medical and military command is murky at best in this situation but if nothing else, Ratchet is relying on Ironhide respecting him as a friend. “And switch his cuffs to the front.”

Ironhide raises a very expressive brow. 

::Unless you want me to hand feed him?:: 

::Bossy, bossy.:: Ironhide snips while he expertly adjusts Ricochet’s restraints. “I’ll be right outside.” Ironhide casts Ricochet a last baleful look before he leaves, but he leaves.

The trinity integration monitor on Prowl’s vitals chimes in to tell him that the idiot in the other room just tried to load external data into a corrupt buffer. Ratchet acknowledges the ping and turns to Ricochet.

He catches the end of a tentative look up before Ricochet ducks his head back down and hunches back on the berth like Ironhide’s still holding him there.

Ratchet fumbles the setting on the stasis cuffs down and immediately solves Ricochet’s generalized tremor. His rigid tension eases fractionally. Really, Ironhide. “Ops or frontliner?” he asks Ricochet, conversationally.

The tension comes right back, but not before Ratchet manages to lock down the grating servo he’d spotted before. “Wh-pardon?” Ricochet asks, slightly brittle.

“You should be unconscious.” For two to six more joor. Ratchet will have to check his notes, but he thinks Ricochet may have just taken record time for waking up from that dose of metalhexital. He retrieves the sedative from Ricochet’s medical port and bins it to check later.

Ricochet shakes his head. “Neither. I mean, frontline for a hot s-second, who wasn’t? But just, just an overactive processor. Never sedated well.” 

Ratchet nods and starts a patient file while he checks him over. Natural variability can have remarkable impact. Still less likely than a learned tolerance or outright mods, though. “Do you know what analgesics and sedatives work well or poorly for you?” Ratchet doesn’t expect an actual answer to ‘poorly,’ but he might get something for ‘well.’

Ricochet hesitates. 

“If I have to sedate you through overrides, I would use strong form cyberflurane. Do you know if you have a history of adverse reactions to that?” 

Ricochet’s thinking so hard. Close up, Ratchet can practically feel it, hear it in the spin of fans and buzz of burning fuel. “N-no sir. That should work.”

“Good to know. Now, any reason you’re so underfueled?”

Ricochet shrugs slowly — and, ah, he’s looking Ratchet in the optics now. “I’ve had a busy day. Didn’t really get a chance to fuel.” 

Ricochet’s showing signs of chronic fuel deprivation, but nothing dangerous and if he doesn’t want to acknowledge it, Ratchet isn’t going to push. He grabs a medgrade gel out of a cabinet and tosses it over. 

Ricochet catches it awkwardly, trying to move a little past what his restraints allow. He looks between the gel and Ratchet, expression muted. 

“Your fuel levels are ruining my baseline. Eat it.” It works — Ricochet peels and tosses the gel back whole with somewhat startling speed — so Ratchet puts aside how fragged it is to have to give a reason. He’s a medic. That’s supposed to mean something.

Ratchet waits for him to swallow before he closes in to fix the injuries — and systems debilitation _is_ an injury — he’s here for. 

Prowl is running ten cycles over steady state, the monitor informs him. Ratchet acknowledges and skips a section on his intake checklist.

“I don’t suppose you’d send me schematics for an energon goodie?” Ratchet comments once he’s logged the obvious problems and made it into individual configurations. Ricochet’s a common build, but like every low-level Decepticon Ratchet’s ever met, he’s a mishmash of odd parts and patches. 

A plate of armor nearly snaps shut on Ratchet’s finger as Ricochet tenses.

Ratchet snorts and waves it off. “Just talk me through what I’m looking at, then? Where’s this bit go in your alt?”

“Inside, uh. Somewhere leftish? Sir.” He’s obviously wary, but manages acceptable answers to the rest of Ratchet’s quick history, and relaxes in little fits as Ratchet realigns systems, fixes melt damage, and crimps and baffles.

Ratchet starts at Ricochet’s clipped comms and subspace systems while his threat responsive systems continue to settle. Left untended, self repair can restore function or, far more likely, scar into permanent damage. Crimping cut systems dulls back the pain, prevents error cascades, and allows proper healing. Baffling keeps them offline. It’s not a procedure Ratchet learned in academy and he _hates_ how smoothly he can do it.

There is some redeeming satisfaction in how Ricochet relaxes marginally and gasps almost inaudibly in relief as Ratchet works. Grinding systems hurt.

In the other room, Prowl steadies back into the yellow, wavers up to orange, and floats between the two in a series of alerts Ratchet collects from the monitor. Acknowledge, acknowledge, acknowledge. He pauses on Ricochet’s injuries long enough to weld in a tracker and some proper internal inhibitors, until he’s acceptably safe. Then he works each of Ricochet’s injuries in series, in case he needs to stop in between.

“Can you turn my internal comm back on?” Ricochet asks quietly when Ratchet is wrist deep in his comms suite. 

Ratchet pauses. It’s the first thing Ricochet’s said that isn’t an apology or the response to a direct question. Internal audio systems are integrated into the comms suite and don’t typically have a whole lot of use outside of comms. “You want to listen to music?” 

Ricochet smiles weakly. At some point, he’s gone from completely avoiding optic contact with Ratchet to watching him with fixed intensity. “I'm going to listen to music, I want to not make everyone around me listen to music too.”

Ratchet laughs at that and grabs a spare connector from a bin. It’s easy enough to do, so he does it. 

“Thank you.”

It feels wrong to be thanked and Ratchet feels his smile falter. “Hm,” he mutters as he sorts through and shuts down the broken remains of Ricochet’s weapons.

Eventually, Ricochet speaks up again. “You’re a medic.”

“Yep.” 

“A for-real licensed doctor.”

“Got a certificate and everything,” Ratchet agrees. He hopes this isn’t the first time Ricochet’s interacted with one.

“What does medical privacy get me?”

Ratchet stills. He meets Ricochet’s look, which is lightly curious, but with an intent edge that isn’t quite hidden. “For security reasons, I’m going to share the broader facts of your general schematics with command staff here,” he says carefully. “If you send me more detailed schematics, I will share anything relevant from that as well.”

“What about something that isn’t a security concern? Can I tell you...just a secret?”

Primus save him from baby Cons and their superstitions about healthcare. “Is it a medical concern?”

“Arguably?” Ricochet kicks his feet thoughtfully and Pit but it makes him look _young_. “It’s sensitive to my health. Not a strong argument, give you that. Right. Ok, ok, ok. Thanks for being up front about that.” 

“Hm.”

“What about...” Ricochet contemplates the ceiling before swinging back to look at Ratchet again. “Can I tell you something, and just ask politely that you don't tell unless it comes up?”

68% that he’s ops, Ratchet remembers. “No promises, Ricochet.” Ratchet pretends to be engrossed in a half-melted relay that actually needs to be replaced entirely but isn’t something he’s going to start while Prowl’s monitor is pinging him tachycordic. 

“Right. Okay. I mean, it probably won’t come up. But I pulled info on JW-8R off your TacOps guy, but I shorted my long term memory dump for it and didn't tell anyone about it and no one asked, so no one at the Advance knows anything about it,” Ricochet rattles out, quiet enough that Ratchet has to lean in to catch all of it.

When it registers, he’s still not sure he heard it right. “Your sensitive information is that there has not been an information leak.”

Ricochet shrugs. The motion makes his cuffs click. “I told you it was just sensitive for me.” His right optic narrows for a moment. His left one has a shattered linkage that has it unresponsive. “Or at least I implied it was just sensitive for me. Meant to.”

Don’t trust a fraggin’ thing about him. That was the other thing Ironhide said. “Why are you telling me this? And why should I believe you?”

“Right, right.” Ricochet’s nodding already, ready for the question. He stills, folds in on himself in a way that changes his demeanor oddly. “He — your TacOps— knows I know about the mission, but he don’t know what the Advance knows. ‘S important to mission adjustment and timeline, right? So he’s gotta get the info from me. And it ain’t much but it’s something and I — I ain’t got much, so I ain’t gonna say right away. Dig? But! Here’s you. He already don’t trust me none, and if it ends up I’m dead and y’all command still ain’t clear that the mission is safe, you gotta tell ‘em it is.”

Ratchet digests the information with faint horror. He experiences a sudden insight into the way Prowl hesitates and glitches when he tries to talk about this mech. “What?” he says.

“It’ll save lives, Ratchet. They’re hidden alright, but they’re on a scout route — they got time but not much. Don’t let them cancel the fragging mission. Please. I got friends on that ship.” 

Ratchet clips an uneven bit of solder off a messy weld. He has no idea what Ricochet is talking about. He doesn’t know what he’s meant to do with this. “If you have friends at stake, don’t try to use the information to bargain.”

Ricochet shakes his head. “Naw, that’s, it won’t work like that. Look, I’ll tell! I will if I can, but, they got no trust in me, right? So just in case? No one gets hurt if you sit on it a cycle, and I’ll owe you.”

Ratchet stifles a groan. What the frag is he meant to do with that? “This isn’t even close to what medical privacy is.” This is tactical information. He should report it, immediately and without guilt. He hasn’t even said he wouldn’t. He... Ricochet sounds _desperate_. What the frag is Prowl doing with this mech? 

“I know, I’m _sorry_ doc. But it’s just a little thing. Probably won't come up, may or may not matter if it does. If I get offlined before it all plays out, let them know I didn't actually tell anyone.”

Ratchet resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Not his field. “Did you say you shorted your long term memory dump?”

Ricochet twists his shoulder, tilts his chin, and flexes a seam to show a twist of wire and microstorage worked into some extremely delicate neurocircuitry. 

Ratchet swears and grabs a medical multimeter. “How often have you used that?” 

“Not very. Y’know, really? I don’t properly remember.”

Ratchet pauses from checking the scrap of jury-rigged DIY mnemosurgery long enough to look up, confirm that Ricochet is grinning like he thinks he’s _funny_ and try to glare some shame into him.

“Hey, never more than a joor’s worth, I promise doc. I'm reckless, not self-destructive.”

Save him from idiots. “Reckless is just another word for—”

The monitor pings him an escalated alert. What the frag is Prowl doing? The ping screeches into red, and Ratchet abandons the memory shunt. He’s got other reckless idiots to deal with.

Ratchet straightens with enough speed to make Ricochet flinch and draw back. He shakes his head, “Not you. Medical emergency.”

Halfway to the door he pauses, looks back. Ricochet is carefully still, almost as blank as he was when Ratchet walked in, except that he’s looking up, studying Ratchet.

“No promises!” Ratchet says.

He catches a somber nod in his peripheral as he rushes out to go rescue the absolute glitch crashing in the other room.


	8. Chapter 8

Ricochet’s cell shows all the signs of having been a closet up until a few hours before they stash him there. A closet once full of important, high security slag, probably, because it’s actually pretty slaggin’ secure. 

There’s supposed to be a brig in the Promise, but it’s a low-security deal meant for stashing infantry while COs come up with actual punishments. He’s not in there. Instead, some paranoid put this together and he can’t leave. Well, he can leave — echo check along the ceiling reveals a fault that he can claw through if he’s really gotta — but not much more than that. If he tears through the ceiling, he’s still not going to be able to get off base without a miracle, probably won’t be able to survive more than a joor if he’s about middlingly lucky.

Ironhide brought him here along a long, circuitous way around from the medbay to make it harder for Ricochet to track the space between. Joke’s on him, Ricochet’s sense of direction is fragging excellent, and the longer walk just gave him a chance to map out more of the base. And then joke’s back on Ricochet, because that mostly served to confirm that base is _crawling_ with unfriendlies — they took back routes and dodged out from passers-by, but it’s not like you can hide a busy base — heavily secured, and only abstractly resembles his last maps of the Promise.

He can’t get off base without more info, more prep, more resources. An opportunity. Something. 

Something starts with an awful lot of nothing. They leave him — they leave him for a while.

So he sits and waits. Ricochet is good at sitting and waiting. 

He finally gets the defrag he’s needed, fixes the internals he can fix without drawing too much attention, shores up his plans and profiles. Sits.

And waits. There’s an airlock style fuel slot — opaque energy field comes up a meter or two into the cell before the door opens — and a cube appears. He considers it. 

There’s a good chance it’s drugged. Even if it is, it might be worth taking. They’ve mostly fixed him and every breem that rest and repairs integrate, his wariness is rising. Captivity is, in a lotta ways, a waiting game. Waiting is a kind of easier in a fog of pain and exhaustion. Good repair, and the hurts are that much sharper, the wrongs burn that much hotter, and he is that much more likely to do something stupid. It might be safer to starve, might be easier to let them drug him. But he needs his wits. He stares at the cube for a while, pokes it like he’s got a proper chemo assay. 

Ultimately, he leaves it with a shrug. The medgrade was recent, and clean, and will do him for a while yet.

He idles most of his systems to conserve fuel, maps circuits and walls with echo and EM, and he waits. His detailed chrono is off, but he keeps a minimal beat playlist queued up to keep time and sanity both.

Another cube shows, well before Ricochet’s reached any kind of desperation — close to exactly a cycle, if he’s right. They haven’t forgotten about him, at least. 

He jumps up and as soon as the energy field goes down he bangs at the door. “Hey, hey, wait a klick!” he calls. 

If anyone can hear him, they don’t respond.

“Thanks for the fuel,” he yells through the door, just in case.

He waves politely at the most obvious camera on the ceiling, and sits back into his corner to keep slaggin’ quietly waiting. Whatever they want him for, it’s evidently not short-term time sensitive. They’re trying to psych him out with isolation, waiting on an interrogation specialist, or, or — what do they _want_?

No one is telling him, and, yeah, good move on them. He’s got no power or leverage to appeal to. They’ll take what they want, and then they’ll kill him. That’s — Ricochet pulses another echo against his cell walls, feeling out the shape of things. That’s still better than things coulda gone. 

Audio turned all the way up, listening to the — heavily muffled, his call out into the hallway was probably soundproofed to silence rather than just ignored — sounds of base around him, he eventually tracks pedefall approaching his cell, too soon to be another cube.

Relief and terror bite him equally hard. On to — whatever’s next, then. He puts his lists and plans away and takes a steadying vent cycle. No regrets. Well. Tons of regrets, war sucks slag. But no useful ones.

The inner field flares to life, then drops to transparent, revealing Hound and Ironhide on the other side, squeezed in past the outer door.

Ricochet doesn’t move. He isn't scared. He isn't going to react. There's no point to it. He is going to die but that's okay. He isn't scared. “Hello Ironhide, Hound.”

Ironhide looks down at the untouched cubes and frowns. 

Ricochet’s spark skitters — fragging traitorous thing ignores the memo about _not being scared_. 

Ironhide looks between the cubes and Ricochet and groans. 

Ricochet swirls through responses — fight flee deflect, do something. He’s pretty sure he just has to ride it out. He should have taken the cubes. If they wanted him drugged, he should have let them drug him in fuel, not like it’s actually a bad trade off when they can just inject whatever they want — slag he isn’t _thinking_.

“Of all mechs, Red Alert shoulda known better,” Ironhide says, crouching down and collecting the cubes.

Ironhide straightens, and catches Ricochet’s stare before he manages to twitch it back to the floor. “Alright, back of the—” he cuts himself off, because Ricochet is already against the back of the cell. He knows that reflexive line — back of the cell filthy Con, turn around, hands together. 

Ricochet pushes himself up to standing, pacing himself to that exact tempo too slow to be at all threatening, too quick to be read as disrespectful and he forces himself to go all the way to the wall and turn.

“Stop.”

He stops. There’s no pleasing some. Ricochet waits against the back of the wall, watching for instruction.

“Urgh,” Ironhide says. “Don’t turn. Just stay there.” The airlock field goes down and Ironhide and Hound approach. Ricochet doesn’t show a flicker of fear as they approach. “Pay attention,” he says, like Ricochet is about to be doing anything else.

Ironhide stops in reach and resettles the cubes in his grip. He draws a quick sip from each and very deliberately swallows.

He’s built like a tank, and might have antidotes around the corner, or a specialized fuel mod. But at this point it would be blatant mistrust to refuse, when clearly they want him to fuel, and Ricochet does not want to provoke them. And he’s very hungry. 

Ironhide is watching him, unreadable, as he holds the fuel out for Ricochet to take.

Ricochet’s smile feels shaky. “Thanks mech, you’re a pal. Wouldn’t feel right havin’ so much fuel to myself, you know?” He wants to reach out, but he was told to — actually he wasn’t. Watching for reaction, he reaches out to take the cubes.

Ironhide shoves them into his hands with a grunt of impatience, so Ricochet bolts the energon quicker than may be strictly advisable for how much it is and how rich it is. 

Ironhide takes the empty cubes and catches Ricochet’s wrist — not ungently — to pull him around and cuff him. 

Ricochet is finally _ready_ for a stasis field and doesn’t glitch when it settles on him.

A hand drops on his shoulder, same way Ricochet’s been dragged through base before. Ironhide doesn’t crush or twist or wrench yet, just keeps a hold. It ain’t a bad idea for handling a squirmy fragger like him, and Ricochet is keenly aware of the weight as the cell door opens and they usher him out into the hall. 

Hound keeps a step away and a gun out, once they’ve got the space for it.

Ricochet gives him a polite nod. “Con duty again?”

Hound nods uncomfortably back. His optics flick around their surroundings, but never leave Ricochet for long.

“Sweet,” Ricochet says. “You were my favorite. No offense, Ironhide, sir.” 

Hound glances up at Ironhide who — in Ricochet’s straining peripheral vision — shakes his head slightly. 

They ignore him the rest of the way, and Ricochet doesn’t push. 

The path is roundabout again, stealing through side passages to dodge rank and file again. Ricochet frantically updates his mental maps, checks info against what he was getting with echo from his cell. They take him, on net, up two levels, a hallway over, and a solid half kil in towards the center of the base.

They push him into what is unquestionably an interrogation room. Brutal blank walls, shrill zizz of a dozen monitoring and recording feeds, big transteel one-way mirror overlooking, heavy table, heavy restraints. Ricochet doesn’t fight as they clip and magnetize him to the chair, and tries not to hear how much the sound of the door closing behind him sounds like a gunshot. 

Ricochet cycles setting on his optics until he can make out blurred figures behind the mirror. Two midframes, a Praxian, and a big convoy-class.

He digs his claws into the floor and table, a nervous clench that lets him feel the reverb off the walls and sharpen his echo image of the space. The room is disappointingly reinforced against it — someone set a white noise generator in the walls — but even if he can’t hear perfectly, he can catch whispers of discussion and sketch out general impressions of mechs. Hound leaves range outside the door, Ironhide lurks in the corner behind Ricochet.

The door screeches open loud enough to hurt and Ricochet checks his audio back down to a reasonable level. He’s not properly familiar, but he’s pretty sure he recognizes the gait and Ricochet’s not surprised when Ratchet comes up around his side. Little confused, but not surprised.

Ratchet ignores the chair opposite Ricochet — ignores the adjustable restraints and the whole setup, really — to lean against the table facing Ricochet. Close enough to check him over, but still leaving him a little space. Ricochet isn’t sure why — fragging no one is strong enough to power through this level of restraint to take a swipe. 

Doc looks exhausted, hydraulics churning in a way that means too much focused work without enough rest. Medical emergency, he’d said. One after another, he looks like. He’s got scuffs and wear from no time to detail, but relatively little energon splatter and almost no swarf. Probably not a fight. Probably not Decepticons, so why is he here? What could possibly be important enough to drag an exhausted medic in?

“Ricochet,” Ratchet nods a greeting and runs a scan. “How are your repairs integrating? Anything settling strangely?” Ricochet’s too restrained to squirm under the scan as much as he wants to and honestly he’s gonna start spending credibility or patience soon anyway so here’s hoping that exhaustion works in his favor.

“Afternoon, Ratchet. Haven’t noticed anything off. How’s life?” Ricochet’d put Ratchet down as a truespark fragging medic, but he’s been real wrong more than a few times, and he’s seen some truespark medics do some — some pretty fragged up things.

“Hm,” Ratchet says. He squints a little at something on his scanner and Ricochet doesn’t react in any frelling way. Ratchet leans in, reaches for a part along Ricochet’s back. “What is this?” Ratchet asks with an interested tone that immediately triggers a dozen alarms in Ricochet. Never ever be interesting — in general, but especially to a doctor. 

What’s he — Ricochet feels the gentle brush of a scan against his — “It’s a standard HFS-series valueswitch, with the repacitor ripped off, just misshapen because we — the casing had to be melted to fit in my frame,” he recites.

Ratchet pulls back, looks at Ricochet with a mildly puzzled expression.

Ricochet looks bored. He knows he looks bored. His spark is spinning faster than it should, but Ratchet is looking at him and not his scanner so there’s no way he knows that. There’s nothing interesting in his frame, he’s just an idiot with some cheap toys crosswired messily into a standard chassis. 

Worst thing is, that part is nothing but a creative fix to a part that caught shrapnel way away from any kind of medbay. It is — so honest it hurts — nothing interesting. That won’t necessarily save him. Might make it worse, if they’re disappointed after taking him apart.

“Good to know,” Ratchet says. He pauses, looks over his scanner again. “What’s wrong with your fuel uptake?”

Ricochet resets. Primus, everyone on his back about his fragging fuel today. He shrugs. “I forgot to drink earlier, so I bolted some just now.” He’s perfectly aware that’s bad for him after decas of low intake but what exactly is he meant to do about it?

Ratchet frowns over his shoulder at the corner that Ironhide’s haunting before turning back to Ricochet. “Go easy on your systems, you’ll start a regulatory issue. Why are you starving, anyway?”

Lack of fuel. “Rations are low.” 

“And yet most Cons aren’t building up to permanent fuel line damage the way you are. Are your consumption needs above your frame spec?”

Ricochet hopes he’s exaggerating for effect at least a little. If this level of malnourishment does damage, he should be long fragging dead. He fidgets like a scolded sparkling. “Rations are lower for mechs bad enough at their jobs to get caught by Autobots,” he says with a defensive edge

Ratchet gestures in defeat. “Fine. Sure. Well, other than that, you’re at least as healthy as you were. Ratchet of Vaporex, 3:10:423 Iacon time, certifying Ricochet of Tyger Pax has no major damage, with minor damage detailed in report DS25.” He addresses the last bit towards a mic embedded in the middle of the table, runs a hand over his face, and leaves, pressing his comm obviously on the way out. 

That was... medical clearance for interrogation? Slag but bureaucracy’s weirdly terrifying. Ricochet shudders slightly, clicks a few sonic pulses into the table, and squints at the observation mirror.

He tries not to stare at the Praxian profile he can definitely make out. Ricochet keeps his optics vaguely on the center of the window as he watches the Praxian leave observation. 

The Praxian reaches the door and Ricochet switches his audio back to conversational settings before the door opens and forces himself under control as the sounds of pedefalls round the table. 

Unlike Ratchet, he goes straight for the interrogator’s chair opposite Ricochet and takes a seat.

He’s. It’s not Prowl.

Ricochet stares at him for a long dumb moment. He knows the face, he’ll place it in a sec, he’s just a little more stressed than his sweet spot.

“Hiya,” Smokescreen says. 

Smokescreen should be elsewhere. Ricochet has a credible sighting of him in Malin-8D6 an orn ago, he must have come off the Fornax bridge since the Autobots capped it a few cycles back. Why is Smokescreen here?

“How’re you settling?” Smokescreen asks, the picture of polite concern.

Ricochet doesn’t know where to look. Hands, he decides. He watches Smokescreen’s hands and keeps his attention broad. “Can’t complain,” he says.

“Oh, sure you can!” Smokescreen waves. “Promise you I won’t be offended.”

Ricochet doesn’t trust him — Ricochet doesn’t much trust anyone who’d walk into the room about now, but Smokescreen’s a liar and cheat near as much as Ricochet.

“Seriously. You look like a mech with something to get off his chest. What’s wrong?” Smokescreen watches, ready to wait out an answer. Slaggin’ _psychiatrist_ , if Ricochet’s remembering right.

Ricochet risks a glance up. “Why ain’t I dead?” Frag, it comes out way smaller than he’d want. He’s — he needs to know.

A finger taps gently at the table. Smokescreen leans in, angles to make sure Ricochet can see his blandly friendly expression. “Okay, honest question: why would we kill you?”

Ricochet’s jaw clenches shut. 

“Woah, easy, easy, I’m not fishing for self-incrimination.” Smokescreen spreads his hands. He pauses, posing at consideration.

Comms static hums against Ricochet and he snatches the frequency. His aux comm receptors are, at this point, mostly literal slag, but he joins them onto his internal and digs up a patchy decrypt helper to get what he can. `c374-0358-security-resolu40e9-89ommon-5a6d-e345-8f5`. Mostly nonsense, spiced with a few catches of semantic and tone.

“How about this,” Smokescreen says. “Why are you here?” 

Information, and then security resolution. To be stripped and then killed, but apparently not before he gets jerked around for a bit. “Followed Prowl too far,” Ricochet says.

Smokescreen gestures encouragement. “Yeah, you and Prowl! What’s that about? What happened?” Something is off, and Ricochet can’t quite place it yet.

Ricochet shrinks. “I _don’t know_. He — he wants something from me. What does he want?”

`08b-c5b-eda7a-theory-f65f-8d90-a511-c77c-8b-ed-efa4` Is Prowl on comms? Ricochet’s never quite pinned Smokescreen’s exact deal, but he’s pretty sure he’s ranked enough to do this on his own. Yet there’s a whole party on comms, voices Ricochet doesn’t recognize. Why _the frag_ does he get so much attention? 

Smokescreen sighs over the flood of comms. “He has some questions for you.”

Ricochet wobbles between terrified at finally getting to it and _annoyed_ at the dance around it, lands somewhere tired. He shrugs. “Right.” He doesn't have the range of motion to shield himself like his instincts are screaming at him to, but he can’t help a little twitch of plating over his vulnerable thoracic ports. 

Smokescreen sees the twitch. He shakes his head. “Not that kind. Just talking.”

`714-eea0-f4c98-073-6bde-0065-fe7-3f5-7348-7f0-8e3a`

Ricochet’s looking at the table, so Smokescreen probably doesn’t realize he catches the fractional nod he gives at the comm. 

“Ricochet,” Smokescreen says. “We’re not going to torture and kill you. Whatever you’ve got, we can live without, if it comes to it.” He claps, spills impressive lightness into his tone. “Don’t get me wrong, it’d be nice to know! But, well,” — he throws a glance over Ricochet’s shoulder at Ironhide — “I’m pretty sure we owe you one for helping Prowl.”

Ricochet nods cautiously, because it’s obviously what Smokesceen wants.

“Just think of the incentives, mech,” Smokescreen gestures. “Seems like it would be a pretty bad idea to kill anyone who got in a little trouble for helping us.”

It’s only a bad idea to let someone _know_ that you’re going to kill them when you’re done with them. They’ve been at war too long for that particular pretense to be worth a whole lot these days. Ricochet tilts his head, listening.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense for us to offer you something in return?” Smokescreen says. `7d3f4-Pro9d-c243-8858-87b8-terms8c-810-ddd-allow-48-64f`, he comms.

Where the frag are they going with this? “What do you mean?”

“Tell us about yourself, and we’ll get thinking about the best outcome for everyone involved,” Smokescreen says.

Something is _off_ — everything is off, and Ricochet’s trying to figure out which parts he needs to worry about.

Smokescreen waits patiently. Ricochet wonders how long they’ll let him sit in silence. He could test it. He could do a lotta things, all varying levels of dangerous.

“I was made for Tyger Pax,” he says, softly. 

Smokescreen nods, politely interested. 

“I’m not a fragging newspark. Debts are for allies,” Ricochet says. Is he an idiot for escalating this into something more aggressive? Maybe! He doesn’t tense — tensing against a blow makes it worse in stasis cuffs. He keeps his chin down and his optics trained for signs of movement or temper.

Smokescreen doesn’t move, though. He watches him closely. “Allies, you say?” His tone is too light, and only sounds dangerous. “What does alliance mean to you?”

What? Oh frag, Ricochet sees the trap he’s managed to build for himself. Ricochet’s _easy_ to blackmail into informing from here, slag, slag. He shakes his head without thinking. “I’m not going to betray the cause. There is nothing you can do to me that’ll be worse than what my side’ll do when they find me out,” Ricochet insists. 

Yeah, he definitely wants to die before getting caught as a traitor Con. But — but then, maybe, there might be something he can say to get them to let him back to familiar territory where he knows the walls and pitfalls better and can find a way out — Ricochet’s had a good run, but he’s near ready to call it quits and see who else he can be. That. That could work.

Smokescreen leans back. “Yeah, probably,” he says, with a hint of discomfort. “Okay, you’re not going to betray the cause. So. What’s your ideal path from here? No judgement, no promises, just chatting. What do you want?”

Something. _Off._ He’s not sure how much he can draw out before they lose patience, but even if finding out hurts, it’ll be good to know exactly. He looks up. “I want to talk to Prowl.” He is — among other things — a much worse liar than Smokescreen.

Smokescreen twitches his fingers. “You want to talk to Prowl,” he says it with amused disbelief, but there’s a little hesitation and Ricochet’s found something.

“Prowl,” Smokescreen repeats. “I know you’ve met Prowl. I know you know he’s not really a... talker.” He says it like he’s sharing a joke.

Ricochet puts on a light tone just as real as Smokescreen’s. “Oh sure, mech's got no conversation skills. But I know his language.”

“Well, I’m glad someone does,” Smokescreen says with a pretty polished fake smile. “What do you want to talk to him about?”

Ricochet hopes whatever’s exhausted Ratchet has kept him fully distracted. “I want to tell him what I told the Advance about JW-8R.”

Smokescreen’s comms buzz. “And what did you tell the Advance about JW-8R?”

Ricochet braces his plating to stillness like he’s not cycling coolant twice as fast as he should. “I’ll tell Prowl.” He doesn’t actually have _leverage_ for an ultimatum but so far they’ve committed to the pretense of ‘just talking,’ and if they’re really courting him as an asset, maybe they won’t, maybe they’ll—

“Sorry Ricochet,” Smokescreen says with professional gentleness that sets Ricochet _on edge_. “Prowl’s busy with other things. Tell me, and I’ll—” He stops in the middle of his sentence.

It’s a big slip to respond so obviously to comms, but in Smokescreen’s defense, the channel is _flaring_ with conversation. There’s also some spoken arguing in the other room, enough for Ricochet to pick up a faint echo of voices. He can’t tune in to it without blowing his audio when Smokescreen says something.

He watches Smokescreen’s face, which does something interesting and complicated. Finally, the comms die in a burst and he cycles his optics. “Fine. Fine. So,” he turns to Ricochet. “Cards on the table. Prowl’s crashed.”

Ricochet’s haze of — admittedly confused — triumph drops under a stab of concern. Crashes are _bad_. “Is he okay?” he asks.

“You had better hope he gets back up,” Ironhide speaks up from behind, and all of Ricochet’s plating tries to flare up against magnetization.

He’s still down — fraggin’, Ratchet, Smokescreen, _obviously_. Ricochet’s concern washes out under shrill terror. He doesn’t need Ironhide threatening, he _knows_ he needs Prowl up. The timeline on the Wandering Star is soon enough, and who the frag knows what the timeline is on how long they’ll keep Ricochet around for no reason — Prowl’s word is the only thing that makes him more interesting than a run of the mill prisoner. Yeah, he needs him back up. 

Ricochet twists over his shoulder to try to get a read on Ironhide — angry and suspicious, looks about right — searches between Smokescreen and the observation window.

“What’s wrong with him?” He’s not sure who he’s asking. He tries to find Ratchet in the blurred mechs behind the glass and can’t, but he’s pretty sure he heard the doctor’s voice in comms. 

“Is it cascading off a null lookup refrag virus?” he pitches loud enough to be heard through Smokescreen’s personal comm, if that’s running. “That’s what it usually is after Pullarm gets someone and he had Prowl last before I got him out. He does it all the time because he runs memories through oxciptal tracks and tries to start overflows on — is this helpful? The point is, I’ve got the patch for it.”

 _"Are you saying that you have the exact patch to fix Prowl?"_ The intercom crackles to life — Smokescreen’s a moment too slow hiding the glare he shoots at a camera in reaction.

Ricochet nods at that camera. “Pullarm always fragging does this, the whole Advance mnemo wing keeps internal copies of the patch.”

Smokescreen cants his head in interest and recaptures Ricochet’s attention. “Mnemo wing? Why do you have a copy?”

Ricochet ignores a sinking feeling. “I’m an interrogator,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Prowl must have told you.” He knows he did. He was there, pitssake.

“Weren’t you a Comms Officer?”

“Yeah. Interrogator’s a qualification, not a title. I’m also a medic-3, a GIS imaging tech, and a good dancer,” he says, flippant. He’s scrabbling for a working angle to get Prowl the damn patch. “You want to be able to save your officer or not?”

“Why do you want to save him?” Smokescreen asks, his layer of professional friendliness ebbed down as near to genuine as Ricochet’s seen so far. 

He finds one of the best lies, which is a truth. “I — if I do this.” He has no way to enforce. But that’s not new. “Just, you got prisons and slag. Won’t be a big difference to you. But I don’t want to die.” Slaggitall he has things to do.

“You’ll give us the patch in exchange for imprisonment over execution?” Smokescreen asks, thoughtful. 

Ricochet skims over himself for vulnerabilities and shrugs. “That’s about the shape of it.”

The intercom cuts in. _"He’s a_ hacker _, we’re not taking anything he codes to Prowl."_ It’s the same voice that clarified what the patch was, and Ricochet’s not sure what the point of that was, then.

“Oh please, it’s like 5 megacytes.” His professional disdain is real enough, he just has to keep the desperation out of his voice. “It just refreshes some tables and force cycles a bunch of metamnemo crawlers. It’s not — if we could code shellware into that, the war would be long over.” He looks at the cameras, at Smokescreen. “Someone back me up.”

Smokescreen sighs and spreads his hands. “Mech, I already said we weren’t going to kill you. Don’t worry about the patch.”

What? Frag, what? No. “How long has it been?” Ricochet asks. If it’s the emergency that Ratchet ran for — yesterday, day before. He’s not a real medic, but he flew a vorn with a bosun with a crash condition and he knows it’s been _bad_ long. “How long has Prowl been down?” He talks to the camera. 

No one tells him. Right, still in a fragging interview. Ricochet buries a gesture of frustration. “C’mon, just give it to your security team or something. A spec ops medic?” He keeps going despite a little twang of good judgement that advises against. “What kind of sinking ship are you running around here? Y’all need at least one tech who can handle checking an antiviral!” Even if he was trying to plant a virus, his story has a credible chance and they should be taking it.

Ricochet turns to Smokescreen. “He — I need Prowl up, you get that, right? I’m not gonna fry him. You don’t even have to promise anything, I’ll just give you the patch — test it on me, it’s entirely fragging harmless I don’t care.” Frag, it looks bad if he cuts out his own end of the bargain but they already weren’t going with it.

Smokescreen winces at his comms — a long, long burst of encryption — and physically pokes his receiver to mute.

“Alright! Cards, table.” Smokescreen throws up his hands and pushes his chair back with a splitting scraping noise. “We’re not actually sure what we’re doing with you yet, but we’re not fragging Cons so I’d love if everyone” — he spares an exasperated glance for the camera — “toned the paranoia down a little. Prowl wants to talk to you, and we’ve meanwhile got specific instructions not to try engage with your internal computing. Ratchet’s a good doctor, and he is confident Prowl’s going to recover.” 

Smokescreen’s a good liar, Ricochet’ll give him that much. Ricochet watches and carefully brings himself back into a quieter and more submissive posture. 

“Ricochet,” Smokescreen says, and he tweaks a control on the table that demagnetizes the field pinning Ricochet’s hands. Smokescreen stands up and reaches a hand out, bobs it significantly when Ricochet stares, startled.

Ricochet gives his hands over cautiously and Smokescreen grabs him into a handshake. “Nice to meet you, thank you for taking time out of panicking in jail to have a chat, but it looks like it’s time to let you get back to that.”

Then he turns and — Ricochet don’t know how else to put it — storms out in a huff.

Ricochet twists to watch him go, and sees Ironhide make his way over from his corner.

Ironhide is holding his own comm link like it hurts. Ricochet can’t hear even the encrypted conversation without the resonance off Smokescreen, but the air is still alive with data, until Ricochet dials off the channel.

Ironhide bears it for a few more kliks before he cuts it with a shake of his head. “Primus,” he mutters. “You did not phrase that well.” 

Ricochet’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean. Someone really, really, doesn’t trust his patch, he takes it. He watches Ironhide warily as he comes over to collect him, but he doesn’t seem madder than usual — actually, little bit of an amused beat to him — and he moves Ricochet with his usual weirdly careful handling.

Hound rejoins them outside. Ricochet tries to regain some focus. “‘Lo again, Hound. Are you the only mech qualified for Con escort duty?” 

Hound’s expression still hasn’t dipped back to the level of unguarded it had back when he thought Ricochet was drugged dumb, but it eases a little more than it has since. “Maybe I volunteered,” he says.

Ricochet grins. A scrap of easy conversation hits him way harder than it has any right to. “Aw, I’m touched.” Prowl must have set security clearance on his presence real high, discouraged new people from meeting him. Works fine for him, Hound’s top end of people to have following you around to kill you if they gotta.

Same as before, he shares a glance with Ironhide and then refuses to engage for the duration of the walk back to Ricochet’s cell, where they leave him alone to get back to panicking in jail. Ricochet doesn’t trust Smokescreen an inch, but he can’t help snagging the phrase off him. 

Smokescreen was — it’s — what the frag just happened? Ricochet... thinks that might have been an overall victory? Whatever else, he’s, he’s completely unhurt, his scouting of the area around his cell is three times better than it was, and he knows why they haven’t figured out what to do with him.

Prowl is in bad fragging medical condition. Scraplets in a fragging landmine, he needs Prowl up. They’re not going to use the patch and the virus has been cascading for _cycles_.

He’s — he’s gotten something out of this. He’s still not hurt or caught and he thinks it might be time to use the advantage before he loses it. He’s still not going to be able to get off base, still probably won’t be able to survive more than a joor if he breaks out of his cell, but then, he doesn’t really need to. 

Ricochet settles against the back of his cell and jams together all his lists and plans and shiny new info and figures out his play. Everything is — he can get everything tied off best he can get it, and run just one last bit. And this last bit would be worth it. He figures he’s pretty likely to die in the next few days anyway, may as well do it on his terms and save this pain in the aft pit spawned smelterfragging ship in the process. 

Prowl, too, had better stay fragging saved at some point, all this effort he’s putting into it.

When he gets everything set, and when — best he can tell — timing lines up best it will, Ricochet tears through the soft spot in his cell, shoves through, and moves fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prowl: Hello everyone, the strangest thing happened while I was captured. This is Ricochet, and it’s very, very important that you — dffsliaelan▯▯sd▯seee�e#&!*^#^���!(!▯▯▯�▯▯���  
> Prowl:  
> Autobot command: Um. Um. Ummmmmm.  
> Red Alert: (jsyk if there’s _anything_ mysterious about this guy I am going to _flip my shit_ )


	9. Chapter 9

Jazz tries to be a set and forget kinda mech. Sure, sure, there’s always a safehouse gets burned, a ship needs a quick course correction, an agent needs a vouching, and he’s just gotta blaze through those whenever he gets a minute at a secure console — quick and easy pieces to tie off while he‘s hooked in to an out-of-the-way computer bank and waiting for a decrypt on a door control he needs anyway. But most part, his routes and ops are set up to run on their own. Everyone he works with has to handle the fact that life is crazy and he could get occupied or dead at inconvenient times. It’s built into the system.

Point is, if he’s not actively planning or setting an op, Jazz doesn’t have a whole lot he needs to fuss on. Mostly, he keeps a wire out for good info or special contacts — slag like a special request from an old Nexis friend they’re both pretending he doesn’t know is Blaster. He doesn’t _really_ have time right now but he’s fragging weak to his curiosity so he checks it out anyway.

It’s a straightforward profile request, offering a standard intel exchange — he’s done more of these than he can remember at this point. This one’s on Ricochet. Which. 

Aight, phrasing’s delicate, here. For one thing, he tries to assume that anything he writes ends up in front of Soundwave eventually. But for this bit, it’s more — yeah, Prowler is gonna read way too deep into whatever he says.

Jazz mutes himself so he can cackle silently for a few kliks.


	10. Chapter 10

_What did he do what did he do please please where is_

Ratchet is looking for diagnostics, so Prowl obligingly sends them over.

_Prowl?_

He has had a bad crash. It is a familiar feeling. Prowl tries to pass across a sense of tired embarrassment. More than that will have to wait. He feels Ratchet sift through some last checks at near uncomfortable speed (worried) and disconnect.

Once he is reasonably (zzft%) sure it will not make him sick, Prowl eases his sensory systems up.

“—out and off of him!” Ratchet is yelling. “No hacking in my medbay!”

“I wasn’t, I wasn’t! I swear I wasn’t!” Ricochet? 

Prowl onlines an optic. 

Red Alert, Ratchet, and Ricochet are crowded into the medbay room, which was never meant to comfortably hold four, especially when three of them are scuffling on the floor. 

“He’s a spy!” Red Alert shouts. He is hardlined into Ricochet in a gory tangle of stripped wires and mnemoscraping aids and he and Ratchet are both grabbing on to Ricochet, struggling to keep him to the ground.

Ricochet kicks wildly and levers at one of Red Alert’s arms with a spray of sparks and a scream of peeling metal. “I ain’t— stop, stop who the frag even are you?” He attempts to swipe his claws at someone’s exposed cabling, and the motion stutters and fails with an unhealthy crunch. 

The optimal environment for recovering from a crash is quiet and empty.

Ratchet unclips a medical hardline he had on Ricochet and grabs holds on both Ricochet and Red Alert. “He saved Prowl. Red, _stop!"_

Red Alert grabs at the connection between them as Ricochet tries to physically rip it apart. “He is run—”

Prowl gingerly peels a lead off his chassis and presses it to the berth. The attached monitor, sensing fatally low spark output in its patient, shrieks an alarm.

Everyone looks up, and Prowl holds up a hand to request a moment. He lets the blaring alarm drown out the chaos of the scene for 3 kliks, then reattaches the lead, leans over to the sparkfield monitor and taps the reset. Appeased, the monitor quiets.

The room (finally) takes on a heavy silence and stillness. Three sets of wide optics are fixed on him, and Prowl looks away as his crash errors sort themselves out. He is sore and drained, but in much better shape than he would expect (antiviral applied, 84%). Tac net finishes a stalled analysis set and dumps a flood of prioritized information.

“Roller is Tarn,” Prowl says automatically, turning back to the pile of mechs on the floor. No. No, he frowns and shakes his head. “Disregard. Corrupted analysis chain.” They needed to to clear out before he could finish resetting.

Prowl blinks, takes in three extremely nervous mechs frozen mid fight. He whistles, an official Enforcer alert, toned back to a softer setting because he is still somewhat confused. “No fighting in the medbay,” he says. “Base regulation 142b.” Reprimands and scutwork for the lot of them. One is a captured enemy soldier, though, and that complicates the matter.

Prowl considers the troublemakers. “Why is he saying he’s a spy?” he asks Ratchet, though 93% the answer is simply ‘that is Red Alert’s default opinion.’ Due diligence.

“He was running a full processor wipe!” Red Alert cuts in. “And he’s _skillfully_ partitioned! Let me back in, they’re still usable, he’s _not neutralized_.”

Prowl boots the rest of the way up, ignoring the predictable headache. Ratchet is wedged between Red Alert and Ricochet and shoves them apart with a firm shake before either mech can make a move.

“Standard defensive response!” Ricochet lies. He has worked free of the wires connecting him to Red Alert, and contorts to protect his ports and wires.

“How much did he wipe?” Prowl asks Red Alert. He sorts and uncoils his leads to get a better range of motion.

“Hard to say. Nothing major, nothing that I saw —”

Ricochet laughs. “Nothing at all. _Why_ are you freak competent slaggers _here?"_

Prowl checks the clock on a monitor (chrono never comes back correctly on its own). He has lost 51 joor (he must have nearly died), and he is _behind_ on what should have been first-hour checks. “Red Alert, did you happen to see his vaccine logs?” Prowl asks. Prowl can and has taught courses on forensic cybermetrics.

::Yes. Only patchwork, though. Nothing I can be sure wasn’t edited for a profile. He’s still jammed, let me back in before he has a chance to refactor and I can check.::

::Don’t you dare!:: Ratchet says. ::Not in my fragging medbay, Prowl.::

::No need, Red Alert.:: Prowl inclines his head. “Ratchet. Did you notice any mods that might indicate an espionage specialization?”

“I’m not a spy!” Ricochet... probably (63%) lies. One of his hands is clenching and unclenching. (Nervous tic 34%, recalibrating motor control 72%)

Ratchet hesitates. “He’s got some stealth and machine interface mods. Pretty indicative of espionage, yeah.”

“In this repair?” Ricochet is fidgeting, generally away from Ratchet’s grip, but it looks less like an attempt to escape (30%) and more like nervous energy (79%). “Mech, 'Cons aren’t _that_ short on resources. Okay, I was ops track, you got me. It was a bad fit, and I flunked my way out to being an honest camera jockey. I ain’t — I’m not a spy!” 46%, but the margins of error on most of (on all of) what this mech says are considerable. 

Prowl considers Ricochet. The mech is watching Prowl with a fine, fixated tension, optics bright. Is that fear of the unknown (62%) or a trained anticipation of consequence (92%)?

Prowl stretches, works at stiffness built from erroring for over a cycle. He fingers his most accessible medical port, finds it slightly sore from (96%) a very recent rushed connect and disconnect. ::Spy or not.:: “Unless I misunderstand,” (5%) Prowl says, “I owe you my life, and my current health.” He puts aside, for now, the possibility (11%) of tampering in his code. “Thank you.”

Red Alert twitches towards Ricochet. Ratchet tightens his grip on Red Alert. Ricochet studies Prowl as closely as Prowl is studying him. Unless Prowl misunderstands, Ricochet failed to convince Red Alert of good intentions and escaped custody in order to break into Prowl’s secure medbay room and administer an antiviral. It is a neat and satisfying interpretation of the current situation that only raises _more questions_.

Breaking out to save Prowl — it does not even qualify as _risky_ , recapture so inevitable it was a forgone cost. (It was one of the most viable available options to save Prowl’s life.) Proceeding anyway was either stupidly optimistic (8%), or desperate (stupidly desperate).

“That was suicidally reckless. Why did you do it?” Prowl asks.

“Couldn’t just leave ya twitchin’, boo,” Ricochet says, with an insouciant smile. He shrugs and sighs. “‘Sides, I was dead anyway if you didn’t get up.” 

“I see,” Prowl says. Had Prowl died or continued to be unresponsive, the final decision on the disposition of Ricochet should have ultimately gone to Optimus. “You are incorrect, but no matter.” Ricochet’s apparent desire for Prowl to be available for mission JW-8R can not be completely discounted as a factor, but he (92%) anticipated something _motivationally_ unpleasant given continued custody. 

“What are you so afraid of that you considered breaking in here an acceptable option?” Prowl asks. 

Ricochet temporarily breaks visual on Prowl to watch and shrink away from Red Alert a little more. “I don’t want to get hacked, as one thing,” he says.

It is not even a good deflection. “Understood,” Prowl says. “To clarify, you are frightened of your general treatment to the point of irrational behavior. What is the basis of this? What are you hiding?”

That earns a reaction. Ricochet stutters static. “Nothing! I’m hiding nothing, I just don’t like being a prisoner, it’s not that mysterious.”

“Yes,” Prowl says. He is not good at conversation, but he hears details. Ricochet could be making a general statement (77%) but in context, he is expressing an established preference (89%). “Yes, you’ve been captured before, haven’t you? Where?” There should be records — off of a frontline? Or an infiltration? Neither makes sense on its own, “Multiple times. Early on?” 

“Garrus-3,” Ricochet spits, and Prowl’s speculation snaps on. 

Garrus-3 — true (91%) — verifiable (he queues a reminder to check inmate records), plausible, and it has explanatory power, Garrus-3 is — was — he stops. 

“Oh,” Prowl says. 

Shortly before the initial fires started, internal investigation had begun to turn up evidence of corruption and abuse. By the time the full damning documentation had been confirmed, Garrus-3 was nothing but cool ashes after a storm of riots and sabotage more than a little likely (58%) encouraged by an incensed Internal Affairs agent. 

“Garrus-3 was not typical. Do not base your expectation of treatment off of it.”

Ricochet’s expression is unreadable, but Prowl knows that he is intelligent, and that he was at Garrus-3, so he almost certainly (97%) is not reassured.

“So,” Ricochet says. “What are you going to do with me?”

“I would like to talk,” Prowl says. He turns to Ratchet. “This room is secure, right?”

Ratchet’s sirens whoop. “I’m sorry, is the part of your brain with _sense_ still in a coma? Berthrest! Now!”

Prowl frowns. “His cell is clearly compromised, so we might as well keep him here for now. I am functioning—”

Ricochet gasps and starts scrambling away from Ratchet with renewed energy. Red Alert jumps, but Ratchet elbows him neatly in the face to keep him out of the way while he leans on to the 'Con in a solid pin. After a few moments, Ricochet goes limp. 

Ratchet unplugs from a medical port. “Oops, had to sedate him. Looks like you’ll have to talk later. Haul this 'Con out with me, Red?”

Prowl’s frown deepens.

-

As it turns out, Prowl is exhausted and needs the rest. Crash-induced unconsciousness does not have the restive properties of actual recharge. He is asleep before he finishes requesting a sitrep from Smokescreen.

He jolts awake to a cautionary alert from his tac net. Given some space from the chaos he first woke to, Prowl is disoriented and in pain. He feels, not to put too fine a point on it, like hot slag. He would like to go back to sleep. He actually would.

He would like to go back to sleep, but he’s running too many possibilities. He needs more information, needs to check and clarify some points in order to prune his analysis into a workable field. Otherwise, Ricochet is going to do what has not been done since those _impossible_ reinforcements showed up at the Third Battle of the Rust Sea and overload his tac net. 

::Red Alert:: He comms ::Am I clean of code tampering?::

Red Alert responds instantly, with a dissatisfied grumble. ::I didn’t find anything, Ratchet didn’t find anything. Anything he’s done is untraceable and unpredictable, Prowl. We’re missing _breems_ in my reconstruction of his breakout.::

99% that he’s clean. ::Thank you, Red Alert.::

His work datapad is still where he hid it under the berth. Prowl grabs it and quietly overrides the medical lock Ratchet put on his credentials. General records checks on Ricochet turn up ambiguous and fragmentary information, but he is able to find a Ricochet (of Rodion, alias 58%, error 27%, misidentification 12%) of the correct frametype in Garrus-3 logs, and pieces together and adjusts speculative connections from there.

Smokescreen ran an interview yesterday. The transcript clarifies a few details, though there is nothing terribly surprising in it. Optimus recommends kindness and honesty (leaked Prowl’s condition on an _instinct_ ). Red Alert recommends a deep scan and transfer to a secure facility. Smokescreen barely refrains from outright refusing to ever run another interview with both Optimus and Red Alert in observation. (He also passes Ricochet on a preliminary potential defector screening.)

Blaster has a response from Jazz — a substantive one, even, rather than the sidestepping or negotiation Jazz has sent in response to 42% of previous contacts. Prowl flips through a skinny collection of records (Alley-Oop of the Siege of Tyger Pax, a.k.a. Ricochet for his unpredictability; Decepticon, MTO, Spec Ops wash out; Junior officer on GHX-9) to the annotations. Jazz tends to annotate to the point of gossip, and has a knack for piecing together relevant details on almost any given mech. 

Prowl double-checks his download to confirm. Ricochet’s annotation is _short_ (9th percentile on over 600 profiles received from Jazz, 94% deliberate concealment). 

‘Don’t kill him,’ Jazz says. Nothing else. 

Prowl absently refreshes his view a few times, ruminating. 

There are no associated chat logs with Blaster (typically friendly banter that Prowl long ago stopped picking over for useful intelligence), but that is not anomalous. The rest of the attached documents take on no immediate new significance as Prowl scours through them.

He updates Ricochet’s profile again. Prowl is making satisfying progress constructing a coherent narrative that resolves some glaring questions. Tac net informs him that it is accelerating towards overload. Prowl glares at Ricochet’s documents. Some mechs (<0.1%) very persistently turn up more questions than answers upon investigation.

::Red Alert, where have you put Ricochet?:: Prowl asks.

\- 

Ricochet is in a high-security debrief room down the hall from Red Alert’s office. Inferno lets Prowl in and leaves him unaccompanied with minimal protest. He is visibly tired (off-shift, 45% responding to heightened security needs, 83% indulging Red Alert), but he is likely only comfortable leaving because Ricochet is — restrained. 

The room has been cleared of anything more complicated than a chair welded to the floor, to which Ricochet is cuffed and magnetized and _chained_. 

Prowl addresses the ceiling. “Red Alert. Have you slept?”

::Not yet,:: Red Alert says, on an encrypted channel. ::Hasn’t been that long. Don’t worry, I have a shift schedule worked out.::

“Never mind that. Red Alert, consider this conversation sensitive and on the record. Chief Strategist Prowl at the Steel Promise, beginning no-contact informal interview with Ricochet of the Siege of Tyger Pax. 3:14:209 Iacon time.” There will be no convincing Red Alert to leave him privacy for the conversation.

Finally, he turns to Ricochet. Ricochet is awake. He looks like he has been awake for at least two joor, long enough to work up and sit in enough stress to bring his coolant levels low enough that there is the faint acrid smell of overheat in the room. 

::Inferno, please bring him some coolant at your leisure.:: Prowl comms.

“Hello,” Prowl says.

Ricochet’s optics flicker over towards Prowl from an undefined point on the wall, then down to the floor. “Hello,” he says. He does not properly look at Prowl, nor does he so much as move.

Red Alert said he had partitions set up. “Your demeanor is different,” Prowl comments.

Ricochet slowly looks over to Prowl. “My circumstances are different.”

“Yes,” Prowl says. Prowl has never been adept at reading body language for information. He relies on advice from Smokescreen’s report. (He’s got no fragging tells don’t even bother. Sir.) “What happened to your accent?” 

Ricochet shrugs, as much as he can (a clanking bob of his right shoulder). “Different speech patterns are appropriate at different times.”

Adoption of formal Iaconian dialect is not uncommon for mechs attempting to make a straight edge impression, it is not particularly interesting. Ricochet’s deep Polyhexian accent is likely (74%) to be a genuine pattern, and that he is making some attempt to conceal it suggests misdirection (68%) as plausibly as it does uneasiness (60%).

Ricochet laughs, quietly, and lolls a stretch that rattles his chains. “Aw c’mon, get over it Prowler. What can I do ya for?”

The change is oddly soothing. Prowl is more familiar with the daredevil 'Con than the meek prisoner. “What is your plan?”

Ricochet squints an optic at him and then makes a show of searching around the room, looking over his shoulder. “Me? I’m sorry, do I look like a mech with a plan right now?”

“Special Operations springs a prisoner and infiltrates the enemy base. Why? What is the next step?” The consequences on that particular analysis chain are high enough that it keeps running despite the extremely low likelihood, and Prowl needs to do his due diligence so he can go back to sleep.

“Fraggin’ _how_ is this an infiltration?” Ricochet laughs. “What, what kinda aft headed plan — break out a high value prisoner, luck up against the patrol — you shoulda shot me on sight!” He pulls forward, scraping metal against the chair and restraints without gaining any clear ground.

“It may have been an acceptable risk.” 

Ricochet digs his claws into his chair (habit, affectation, strategy?), sufficient tension against his restraints to make a chain link shrill. Then he collapses back. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Sounds like something someone like me might get told to do, yeah. Okay. Mech, I don’t know what I can say more ‘n ‘swear I ain’t.’”

“Tell me why you are here.”

“Saw a chance, took a risk,” he says.

The amount of luck and unusual circumstance between Prowl and Ricochet makes a premeditated plan exceedingly (2%) unlikely, so Prowl believes him. 

“Tell me about your amica,” Prowl says.

Ricochet blinks. “Roller?”

“Yes. Where is he from?”

“Why?” Ricochet counters. “He ain’t a Decepticon. We’re net friends.” Protectively obscuring his amica’s identity is consistent with Ricochet’s behavior so far, which is what makes it an excellent lie (79%).

“He is your amica. Isn’t it typical to want to get a message through?” Prowl asks.

“You swappin’ messages with the Wandering Star?” Ricochet asks. 

“Yes,” Prowl says. “Quite regularly.” He watches Ricochet very closely, watches for that deep stillness that he thinks may mean despair. Is that it?

Ricochet shakes his head, looks down. “He needs rescue, not some dodgy association with a 'Con. Excuse me if I don’t want him thrown in here with me.” 

“I see,” he nods. A probability tips over a threshold, and Prowl abandons the inquiry. That should be enough, at least to soothe his analysis needs. Further investigation goes into character judgement, at which Prowl is much less proficient. The most prudent choice may be to leave for now, to return on proper rest.

“What?” Ricochet sits up. “What, wait, wait, Prowl. Please don’t leave.”

Prowl had not yet turned to go. He waits. “Yes?”

“Protihex.” Ricochet bites out. “Roller of Protihex.” The Wandering Star took off from Protihex. It is in the mission brief.

Prowl nods. Very well, character judgement. He thinks he may owe it to Ricochet. “We have, for logistical reasons, compiled the names and regular aliases of everyone on that ship. Are you sure of that name?”

“What? I know his fraggin’ name,” Ricochet says. His voice warbles, and he blinks and shakes his head a little. “He’s — Prowl is he not on that ship?”

Physical fatigue adds an edge to his impatience. Prowl blats static. “The ship which you didn’t know about before you saw what I knew. The odds are extremely long that you would have known about a missed connection — 1 in 300.”

Ricochet watches Prowl. Prowl succumbs to the temptation to lean back against a wall and shift his weight to at least a novel kind of ache.

“And what’re the odds,” Ricochet asks, voice pitched low, “of 400 mechs from Protihex and not a single fragger named Roller?”

It is an extremely common name. Chopping off some significant figures to account for wartime demographic changes, about “1 in 20. You had bad luck. Why did you lie?” Prowl asks.

“Before you fraggin’ start, it still ain’t a trap,” Ricochet growls and kicks against his chair, soliciting a suppressing crackle from his stasis cuffs. “Yeah, so he weren’t on that ship. So his ship went down ages ago. Honest bits — he was a fraggin’ neutral, and 'Cons _smelt_ neutrals, and — how much basic ethics and empathy do I gotta explain, or is that pointless on someone without a spark?”

That stings, a bit more than expected (Prowl was not prepared). Did he infer the customary insult from interaction, or is he familiar from reputation? Prowl deprioritizes that consideration — Ricochet is attempting to goad him to distraction (83%), and it is because he just admitted something very important.

“I see. That is your secret isn’t it?” Prowl says.

“What?” Ricochet laughs and slumps sideways against his restraints until he is watching Prowl from a crooked angle. “‘N what makes you think I only got one secret?” he asks airily.

“You assuredly have more,” Prowl says. “But this one is enough.”

“That I’m a liar with a dead amica?” Ricochet asks.

“That you value the welfare of non combatants enough to take significant personal risks to help,” Prowl corrects.

Ricochet pulls slightly off from his chair and lets himself thud back with magnetized force. “Naw, not really,” he lies, and poorly.

Prowl tilts his head until he is properly parallel to Ricochet’s crooked posture and waits, curious, for the story Ricochet is going to try.

Ricochet’s expression flickers. It does not matter that Prowl cannot read it, because it is all lies. “Fine,” he says. “Con with a conscience, get any more weird about it and I’mma start to be _offended_. Whatever. We can’t all be monsters, numbers don’t work out for it.”

“You work for a group that identifies all neutral parties as enemy collaborators and enthusiastically targets them,” Prowl snaps, surprised by a sudden flare of temper. Furthermore, Ricochet is too canny to have any excuse. “And you are very familiar with the process.”

“Cons f’r life,” Ricochet says, with a strange hitch.

Yes. This is not a sudden crisis (84%). Ricochet is familiar with, comfortable with, being at insane philosophical odds with his life. That, combined with his clear expertise — “This isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this,” Prowl realizes. 

Ricochet flicks his plating. “Yep, can confirm. Manage to not screw over hundreds of neutrals almost every cycle.”

Prowl is tempted to respect Ricochet’s attitude, however futile and short-sighted it is, but frustration wins out. If Ricochet has such strong sympathies and skills, it is reprehensibly unambitious to settle for occasional acts of benevolent sabotage, and irresponsible to be so reckless. “You may have been able to save more lives if you’d prioritize your own safety and continued operation.” Prowl points out.

Ricochet shrugs in a contortion that leaves him looking more at the ceiling than at Prowl. “Long term slag. I'm a junior officer in sector A113. My life expectancy is ten orns. Not a whole lot of payoff for playin’ it safe, ya dig? And I honest to fraggin’ Primus didn’t think it was gonna go this bad for me.”

A headache threatens at Prowl’s senses. He is a connoisseur of headaches, and all too aware it is not purely physiological. “Would you have saved me, even knowing you would be captured?”

Ricochet’s blase demeanor melts off. He looks back to Prowl. “I don’t know. That’s — that’s the whole. No one knows slag like that.”

It is nowhere near a sufficient answer. But the frustration abruptly fizzles. Prowl is tired. A lot has happened. Prowl cycles a vent and leans so that the wall behind him takes more of the weight of his newly repaired (aching) doorwing. “Regardless,” he says. “You saved me, at considerable risk to yourself. Because you cared about the welfare of strangers.”

Ricochet is staring at him with that stillness that is maybe despair again. “Not enough, y’hear?” he says, so quiet Prowl barely does hear. “I ain’t gonna just let a stranger die if it’s the same to me, but I ain’t about to be doing stupid slag to make you leave random people alone.”

He is concerned that Prowl will use the welfare of bystanders as leverage for his behavior. The fact that he expresses immediate concern suggests that he actually would go to dangerous measures to help bystanders. He is simply too cynical to do so in the context of leverage. Prowl does not know _why_ everyone is always so quick to assume he is monstrously cruel, but it is starting to irritate (hurt?). “I understand,” Prowl says. “That is not a viable strategy for many reasons.”

Ricochet nods very slightly.

“Con with a conscience,” Prowl repeats.

Ricochet huffs and looks away. “It’s a bad way to be, I’ll give you that.”

“Defect, then.”

Ricochet jerks up and stares at Prowl.

Prowl waits what he thinks is an appropriate amount of time for a response, during which Ricochet continues to stare, optics wide. “Do you understand?” he asks.

Ricochet leans forward the scant inches his chains allow. “Actually, mech,” he says, “Ain’t sure I do.”

Prowl nods. “Defect. Enlist as an Autobot. Submit to a scan for security, work out an identity and an assignment with us, and undergo an integration period. You would not be the first defector.”

“Would I be the first to get the offer while chained up in a box?” Ricochet asks, pulling his easy going demeanor back over himself.

No. “The details of every defection are generally privileged.”

Ricochet laughs, and uses the motion to look away from Prowl again to stare at a wall. 

Prowl waits patiently. Ricochet shrinks, slowly, gradually. He makes no sudden movements, but he is eventually shrunk as small as he can be, huddled into his chair. 

“Thank you. But no thank you,” he says. His voice is monotone and he does not look at Prowl. 

Why not? “The scan,” Prowl guesses (91%). 

“The scan!” Ricochet says with a laugh and tip of his head to Prowl. “I can’t just let someone in deep enough for a proper scan. It’s—” he shudders. “Prowler, I been maintaining useless partitions for five vorns” (not long, unless you are scarcely more than twenty vorn, like Ricochet is) “because I am terrified of people in my brain and I ain’t about to get slaggin’ reprogrammed now.” His voice falters and weakens as he speaks.

“You will not be reprogrammed.” He is still hiding something. Prowl knows it. Prowl thinks (82%) Ricochet knows Prowl knows it. He decides to leave it at that. “But your apprehension is understood and noted. Think it over.”

“So.” Ricochet is, for now, fairly easy to read. Vents flared, pedes jittering, optics overbright. He is frightened. “So. Now what, Prowler?”

Prowl nods. It is a fair question. “Most likely — plurality” (21%) “of scenarios, not majority — we will interview you one to six more times before you ultimately escape. I should inform you that your likelihood of clean escape is much higher if you do not attempt sabotage during the process, especially anything lethal. Meanwhile, we will consider you an informer. Not in expectation of behavior, but in treatment.”

Prowl turns to a camera. “End of official interview,” he says. ::Inferno, do you have that coolant?::

::Yeah. Outside. Ready for me, boss?::

::Yes, come in.:: Prowl comms. “Red Alert, are repairs to his cell complete?” The debrief room is not an appropriate place to keep Ricochet, any more than the standard brig is.

::...Yes.:: 

Prowl nods as the door opens and Inferno slips in. “Inferno, escort Ricochet back to his cell and accommodate or escalate any reasonable requests he may have. Ricochet, cooperate with Inferno and ask him for any reasonable accommodation you require. Enjoy your” — what was the phrase — “mandatory vacation time.”

“Wait, Prowl,” Ricochet says.

This time, Prowl was actually moving to leave, rather than just thinking about it. He turns back to look at Ricochet, ignoring the protests of his exhausted frame.

“I got a request,” Ricochet says. “Um. If you're gonna kill me. Once you know. Tell me? This uncertainty hurts.” He is braced forward against his restraints, utterly ignoring Inferno’s presence.

“No,” Prowl says, without much thought. “You have demonstrated extreme competence in escaping. Warning you would make an execution dangerous to all involved.”

Ricochet clunks back against his chair. He nods, and coils up on himself as much as he can (not much). 

When it seems Ricochet is done speaking, Prowl again turns to go. 

He hears a faint laugh behind him. “Woulda been safest to lie, though,” Ricochet says.

True, but — “Unnecessary,” Prowl says as he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like the idea that Ricochet is really good at lying with tone and body language and it’s just useless on Prowl because Prowl is really bad at interpreting tone and body language.


	11. Chapter 11

So, Ricochet apparently can’t lie to Prowl.

Or, Ricochet can and has lied a ton to Prowl, but apparently when it’s important, Prowl will just squint at him a little and politely request the truth. The fragger. Fine, Prowl’s some kinda genius and Ricochet is _maybe_ beginning to worry that he’s in over his head, secrets-and-lies wise. Frag. It sounds like they’re maybe for real on not killing him right off and yeah that’s all kinds of nice, but that takes him off the map, and bad slag happens to mechs who don’t know what’s happening to them. 

What do they want from him? Defection, fragging for real? Ricochet _can’t tell_ whether Prowl meant the offer, or if he knew he couldn’t take it. They have more on him than he does them and that never happens and he hates it.

He needs more info. Prowl’s putting pieces together _fast_ and Ricochet can’t let him get everything — not at all if he can swing it, and for sure not without at least trying to push back. Ricochet needs to go scouting, is the point he’s coming up on. Better or worse, he’s gotta get a look around.

The first step of his reckless-ain’t-inaccurate plan is a nap. He dozes, fidgets, gets up, paces, sits slumped, and stares at the datapad — public domain translation of some Primal verses that _butchers_ the cadence — that Inferno kindly provided. His pacing brings him close enough to each of the cameras for him to gently rearrange their outputs into a pseudorandomized loop of him doing Boring Prisoner Slag, and he’s careful on the delay-based mag looping so there isn’t even a seam where he skitters up the wall, claws each camera open and tickles its guts to switch to a more robust hardwired loop.

Once the cameras are covered, it’s quick — rip apart the datapad, use the GPS in it to relay his personal signal back to the cell, stab an alarm bypass patch into the prox and door sensors, rig the datapad battery up to some chemical residue dug from under his plating, check for coast clear, melt out the lock, and stroll out into the hallway.

That’ll hide that he’s roaming for maybe half a joor tops — Red Alert’s a thorough slagger, and Ricochet should really move like security’s already coming in for him. Ricochet makes a brisk, unsuspicious beeline into the vents. Good ol’ vent systems.

Making it back before they notice he’s gone is a long fragging shot, not really goal number one. He needs, what, two, three joors scouting base? Enough time to figure out if it’s a better idea to sprint for the gate and probably get shot, or slip back into his cell and, well, scout the edges of Prowl's patience. If he’s unlucky, security’ll get him the second he pokes his head out and he’ll only get to learn what happens to him after he’s _slagged them off_. He’s not that unlucky, though, and makes it into sub-objective one: dinky supply container behind the medical buildings.

Dinky supply container has almost everything he needs for a reasonable disguise. Ricochet toggles his nanites to more Autoboty colors — more white, splashes of blue and red, Autobrand decals — reapplies a mesh over his plasma burn so that it suggests a longer wound that happens to cover his purple brand, fills over his more distinctive injuries, slaps on kibble and microtransforms his profile into something that should trick at least a level 2 frame recognition algorithm.

The last bit turns out to take some hunting through a few stockrooms in the actual medbay — Ricochet resists a _wild_ urge to go by Prowl’s medbay room. Damn, but even when his spark has good taste, it has _terrible_ ideas. He can’t even click an echo check into the secure room, but whatever, he ain’t here for Prowler this time, he’s just here for — ah, that.

Ricochet snags a blue visor out of a bin. Red optics have a slight nightsight advantage and plenty of Bots have them for one reason or another, but they‘re unusual enough to be worth a detour. Quick configure and installation, and — perfect. Ricochet’s ready — no, not Ricochet. Autobot...Marshall, ready to walk around base.

Marshall sticks to side paths and, yeah, a few more shimmies through vents at first, until he can get to a console with enough access. Red Alert is good, but he’s not Soundwave, and offense is easier than defense anyway. He downloads whatever he can. He needs information. Schedules, floor plans, id schema, sure, he needs those. But those alone won’t fill the dizzying gap he’s dancing over trying to figure out what they want, what they’re going to do, what’s _happening_. 

Marshall finds his id packet, fills in and backdates some assignments, adds himself in on a recent batch of incoming transfers, digs up an old dummy profile that a good or lucky hacker could plausibly find without knowing about it beforehand, and assembles a usable set of idents and credentials — not perfect, not even very good. He pings a door, and it opens, flashing Marshall’s signature. Good enough. 

He needs to know what it’s _like_ around here. A crack at a console is always great, but it’s not really what he’s out here for.

-

“Hi. Are you looking for something?” His tone is affable and combined with how small and brightly colored he is, it’s hard to take as a threat, but Marshall doesn’t miss the tenor of genuine suspicion under it.

Marshall spins with an exaggerated startle and a sheepish smile. “Hi! Yes, um...” He’s looking for — hints, rumors, someone on the east wall team relaxed enough for him to pickpocket, it’s an open ended kinda mission. “Movie night?”

Movie night is a regular event, some kind of low key morale effort, all ranks invited but checked at the door, attendance unlogged, Rewind posts the fliers.

“Yeah, that’s over here!” The yellow mini points in a way that doesn’t helpfully indicate anywhere. “First time? I haven’t seen you around, have I?”

“Yeah, yeah, I came in the other day, from Altihex. I’m Marshall.”

“Oh, were you in Huffer’s group?”

Ugh, thank frag Huffer’s memorable enough that Marshall would have specifically noticed him on the roster he’d put himself on. “Er. I don’t think so? With Warpath and Brainstorm and them. Have you seen any of them around?”

“Yeah, I think they called it early, though. Or they don’t want to watch _Fall of the Revenge IV_ ,” the mini snickers, “Come on in, Marshall!” He trots around and up to a door, managing to put Marshall in between so that Marshall has to key it open. Cute little slagger.

The yellow mech who shows him in falls in with a gaggle of other minis, but not before pulling Marshall through a few disjointed introductions as circles of mechs chatter and regroup. It’s dense and loud and Marshall catches through a dozen conversations. It’s perfect. 

No one comments on his meshes and patches — he’s hardly the only one wearing medical coverings. They obviously notice, though, since no one jabs at his injuries, even in the regular jostle of a crowded room, with passing brushes and balancing taps. Marshall’s ready and doesn’t flinch at the casual physical contact — when it looks like no one’s going to punch him for it he lets himself relax into a touchier body language, plants some bugs, harvests some frequencies. 

He glances around for the yellow mini and spots him near, no kidding, some aliens — um, some non-Cybertronians perched up on a platform. Goraaxian locals, dressed casual and joking easily with each other and the nearest Autobots. Huh. He hasn’t seen anything other than defiant or terrified on an in the flesh goraaxian in a while. Pit, two of them are undersized and still got the black striping that marks them as kids.

The nearest mech — the utility vehicle who’d come in with Ratchet back when he got captured, actually, Trailbreaker of Protihex, Specialist, easygoing mech, security access through east gate 2 — follows his stare. “Not so comfortable with organics?” Trailbreaker asks, carefully neutral.

“Nah, nah!” Marshall says. “Just never seen one up close.” 

Trailbreaker relaxes at that. “Oh, they’re around. Don’t mess with them.” He leans in a little clumsily, braces a hand against Marshall’s arm. “Seriously, they’re really fragile, don’t even play around until you’re used to them.”

Autobots are friendlier with organics. It’s known, don’t mean nothing much.

“Got it,” Marshall says. He sneaks a radio slug blank under Trailbreaker’s plating, where it can sit quietly while it collects and sorts some RFID signatures — yeah, _RFID_ , Marshall’s disappointed in Red Alert. “How do they not trip on those tails?” He asks, swiveling away from the happy organics and back to the group.

“Oh, they’re extremely graceful,” Trailbreaker laughs. “But actually, get them overcharged enough and I’ve seen that! Hey, hey, Comber, you remember that time with TQ’iipia?”

The anecdote comes out with a little encouragement, and Marshall weaves easily into a familiar scene. He gets a scattering of gossip, steals a peashooter off an overcharged two-wheeler, and hears how much and what about people are willing to complain. Prowl... ain’t popular — but no one’s scared enough of him to pretend otherwise.

It’s chaotic, friendly, and lively — it feels horribly like better times. Not like safety, no, everyone’s a little tense, or a little too happy, a bit of a manic edge that Marshall recognizes. They are losing a war, after all. Well, Marshall knows desperation-edged camaraderie like home, and he can feed that mood with the best of them.

He and a few other mechs — Trailbreaker, Beachcomber, and fraggin’ Eject, actually — end up shoved out the door early in the second act, banished laughingly to fetch more snacks as penance for talking too much during the movie.

That works fine for Marshall. He got his read on the room, and he doesn’t actually need to see _Fall of the Revenge IV_ — doesn’t have nearly the rewatchability of FotR II or VI. Plus, Trailbreaker’s also banished, and Marshall’s laughing hard enough at the story he was telling to stumble into him and collect his radio slug full of fresh data.

Marshall sags against a wall, lets his giggles fade out. He stretches. “Hey I’m more tired than I realized. You don’t need me to actually assist, do you?”

“Aw, stay!” Eject — who has decided that Marshall is a friend by the sole virtue of being someone who’ll let a cassette climb on him like furniture — says. He may be overcharged. Or that may just be his personality, Marshall’s legit unsure.

It’s _creepy_ friendly. They’re, it’s... nice. They’re friendly here. Don’t mean they’re good, might mean they smile while they screw him over, might mean they feel bad about it afterwards, really means nothing at all.

Trailbreaker picks Eject up and stands him on his shoulders before Eject can grab onto — start climbing, Eject’s definitely a climber — Marshall. “Hey, hey, he’s got Ironhide for reorientation, newbie needs his rest.” He smiles at Marshall. “Marshall! Want a walk back? Command _hates_ it when we pass out in the middle of the hallways.”

Wow, but what if Marshall just recharged in the middle of a hall? Who would even clock him? Hound, probably. Tracking specialist.

Marshall hums a little to himself. Trailbreaker, Eject, and Beachcomber. There’s a quiet hall on the way to barracks, where he could — EMP Eject, take TB hostage, get Comber to unlock his T cog, knock them out, run to east gate, see if he got the right RFID off TB for door M-9O. M-10 would have to be a slash and dash through armed security, and if there ain’t any explosives in M-11B, he’ll have to get through gate 6 the slow way. He’s got the schematics and credentials he’d need for most of the route, except east has that fragging light moat and without a drive plan logged he’ll probably get taken down by sniper fire. Sniper fire’s not a bad way to go, quick, clean, too much rush to think too hard about it.

He toys with a cube of coolant foisted into his hands by a mech who’d been inserting himself anywhere someone started to look unsteady, flicks at the seal with a claw, which no one has bothered to clip or file.

Be a bad end to a nice evening. Hm. Run and probably die, or head back to his cell for something he can’t make any ‘probably’ out of? Well. He thinks, he thinks they might not kill him, and he’s always been fragging weak to his curiosity.

“Nah, I’m good, thanks,” Marshall says with a wave. “I can make it back on my own, kinna fancy a chance to sober up a bit on the way.”

He heads off with a wave, and when he makes it out of sight and into corridor B-2, he slips out through a window and onto the rooftops.

There’s an unscheduled stealthed and darked patrol sweeping the grounds, and intermediate blast gates are up everywhere. It’s subtle, but the base is on lockdown. Marshall wasn’t planning on making it back unnoticed, but that doesn’t prevent the apprehension that roils through him. If he gets back to his cell and resets the cameras, Red Alert will have to work a little harder to shoot him without anyone asking questions. ‘Course, Red Alert might just kill him and accept the consequences and Marshall really wouldn’t even be able to blame him. On account of being dead. Frag, vent, vent — Prowl wants him alive. He sees more time chained to a chair in his future, with some significantly less friendly company. He can do this.

Marshall checks his backdoored view on the lock systems, tries and fails to intercept some coordination comms, and flips through piggybacks off sensors around base until he gets a rough sketch of what’s going on. Yeah, they’ve got the exits and munitions locked the frag down — means crossing the M halls woulda been a slim chance, so, good job he’s not trying to escape.

Red’s covering the exits, so Marshall goes through the inner buildings. Higher security, offices and officer quarters, little more proofed against mechs in the vents, but way less proofed against mechs like Marshall jaunting out into the main walkways. He slips through a dark office hall and valiantly resists the urge to loot a console for data. Ideally, Red will never ever know he was in here.

His cell’s near the area, and he’s put away his hacking slag and is in the process of shedding and stashing his disguise a bit at a time when he catches heavy pedefall and the low roll of an idle engine.

Marshall pauses. He walks himself casual and unsuspicious to a corner and echo checks a big mech strolling around — ‘Bots ain’t immune to the whole ‘must be this tall to command’ thing, nothing weird, but he’s not recognizing him off echo. He leans around and glances quick to spot red and blue before he ducks back.

Run, run, just start running, his good sense says. 

He peeks back around the corner to confirm. 

Marshall stalls out. He’s dead silent, though, doesn’t do anything stupid like gasp or squeak. It’s either bad fragging luck or _magic_ that makes Optimus fragging Prime pick that moment to look up from his datapad and meet his optics.

That’s fine, that’s fine, Marshall’s fast and he’s already running for the vent he came in through. He makes it a half dozen steps.

“Wait,” the Prime calls. He sounds closer, he’s following.

If Marshall vanishes, the Prime _might_ shrug and move on with his life. And Marshall _might_ discover a cache of passkeys and explosives and a fragging wormhole to the other end of the galaxy. He hops back to where he was standing, so that by the time the Prime comes around the corner, it doesn’t look at all like he just tried to book it. He’s, okay, he’s new and he got lost — lost through two locked doors and a quarter-kil of insulation tunnels, yeah, frag, whatever.

“Hello?” the Prime says, coming in just slower than an actual jog towards him. 

Marshall lets some of his fear through as he taps and crosses his spark and genuflects neatly. “Lord Prime.”

The Prime startles a moment before he responds, and it’s clumsy, dissolves into a more casual waving gesture. “Please,” he says, “please, no need to be so for...mal?”

His voice is deep and gentle and entirely wrong. Marshall’s extremely appreciative of how his visor lets him inspect the Prime without obviously looking up. 

The Prime is examining him with an expression that’s _way_ too thoughtful, touching over his spark absently. “I’m sorry, I believe I’ve forgotten your name,” he says.

“We—” Marshall squirms, inches himself a little away and a little towards that office with the vent entrance. He can’t bring himself to look at the Prime any longer, casts his actual gaze down to the floor. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Lord Prime.”

“Oh, I must be…” the Prime sounds like he’s still trying to place the familiar frame. “Please, call me Optimus. What is your name?”

“I’m Marshall, sir.” Frag, he’s changed his mind on the cost-benefit of running. Would it be too weird to run now?

“Marshall.” He’s too polite to sound openly disbelieving, and too honest to sound actually convinced. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, Lor-sir! I was supposed to drop a report during shift, and I should’ve, I just, I’m not late _yet_ and if I get one more citation I think Prowl may actually have me shot.”

The Prime laughs. Marshall _strangles_ his reflexive shudder.

The Prime’s got a presence. He feels overwhelming and soothing, and it’s in a different key, but there’s that same tune to it as Sentinel and Zeta and Megatron, that sings to him on an instinctive level — whatever he wants, best to just go with it — and if there’s one thing Marshall’s learned from Sentinel and Zeta and Megatron, it’s that that instinct is a fragging liar.

“Sorry, sorry, just, sorry… I didn’t think I’d run into anyone here. And, just, wow, um, I always pictured meeting the Lord Prime, um, differently.” Marshall forces himself to make another hidden glance up at the Prime.

He’s touching his chest again, fingers gently clenching over his spark. “You’re not starstruck,” the Prime says, rueful. 

Marshall looks up and back down, like he’s forgetting for a moment to show respect, and flashes a nervous grin. “Well,” he says. “I ain't sayin’ I ain't a little starstruck.”

“No, you're pretending you're only starstruck. You're scared of me, aren't you?”

Marshall ducks his head lower, unsure if he’s supposed to apologize, or—

“ _Oh_ , you’re—”

Yeah, no, _frag_ no. Ricochet shoots the Prime in the knee and fragging _bolts_.

“Wait!” the Prime calls after him, _hilariously_.

There’s a fragging inhibitor muting his relays and dragging him slow but the Prime’s surprised and his grab for Ricochet don't even come close before Ricochet’s slithered into a vent. He smashes through a solid grate, ignoring the way it slices his cables, ignoring the energon trail he’s leaving, ignoring the motion sensors he’s triggering, priority is speed until he makes it back out into corridor F3. 

When he hits F3 he’s not far yet, not nearly far enough, but here’s where he’s gotta start trying to throw the trail, so he runs the wrong way long enough to kick through a flimsy screen in F3-7 and steal a construction grinder. 

The fragging Prime, frag, frag, he’s way spun and shifted from where he was thinking routes earlier, what’s he got — he’s gotta get _gone_ , east has snipers, still ain’t a good route, still the cleanest route, how messy is he gonna get here? There’s two uninventoried caches near here, if he's lucky there’ll be something he can make explode, then he can grind the tracker off, go to ground, go — go from there.

Cache one is in G212, and Ricochet slides through a slanted vent and into G200. He hits the ground running, pings a door open, sprints across the hallway and _everything fritzes_.

Sight, sound, echo, fragging _touch_ all blur, numb out, and lurch so the first impact don’t register so much as get inferred by how he hits the floor after he gets thrown back hard. Not a bounce, actual throw, that’s a mech, that’s a disruptor field. Ricochet rolls and kicks before the invisible mech can get him, turns the grinder on and lunges out with it — disruptor fields are slagging _obnoxious_ but they don’t hold to combat for slag — and yeah his senses complain but the outline of an actual mech starts to register properly.

Ricochet’s still fraggin’ baffled, can’t kick hard enough to end the fight. Fuzzy-outline-of-a-mech starts going for a knife but he’s off balance and Ricochet’s close enough to rip in and grab it off him. Ricochet slices for a motor cable, frags up his grab for the other mech’s gun, throws him back, and gets enough breathing space to get back to what’s important here — he runs.

‘Kay they know where he is, that ain’t good, but he’s in G02 and that’s good ‘cause there’s one of those fraggin’, the stupid half-floor plan. He makes it to the — mezzanine, yeah, bless a base with fragging mezzanines, only way to get a reasonable lead when you’re in root and running from cars. Ricochet jumps a railing and freefalls to G01, hits hard, but not hard enough to break anything that keeps him from rolling back up and into a run. 

No crash or engines behind him — he’s got a sec to build a lead, Ricochet wants doors and corners now, wants G1-3 or G1-4, picks G1-4 since there’s actually a locker in there with some slag he can — Prowl’s in the middle of the hall past G1-4, rifle ready.

Ricochet scuttles back and away, and Prowl’s first shot snaps by and crackles angrily on the wall behind him. His second shot gets Ricochet’s leg, and Ricochet goes down in a surge of electric impact. He’s flat back on the floor, can’t roll up, ain’t clear he can even feel his limbs. Havoc round. Aggressive nonlethal capture, not Prowl’s standard. Means he ain’t dead. Yet, right.

His leg is twitching and also in some bad pain, but just in case he can still run, Ricochet tries to hard flush the disruption. Something shorts out in his leg — and something in his right fingers for some reason? — so he accepts that best he’s gonna do is wriggle back to a wall and prop himself up kinda sitting.

Distant clanks turn into closer ones, and Ricochet marks the invisible mech, Ironhide, and a few bonus mechs he can’t identify just yet converging in. Party’s coming together.

Prowl approaches unhurried, keeping the rifle pointed at him. Ricochet drops his knife and keeps very still. Prowl’s — that ain’t a happy look.

“Bombs, injuries, broken locks,” he demands.

“You said not to,” Ricochet says. “One none, two 12 cal shot to Prime’s knee, slash on invisible mech’s tension cables and three... highest security is a busted vent — Prime saw it, I’ll make a full list.”

“You will,” Prowl says. His jaw works like he wants to say something else but can’t get the words together yet. 

Rifle’s still up, but Ricochet’s nursing this theory that Prowl doesn’t shoot people just for being insufferable. “Hey,” he says, with a slag eating grin. “Most likely to escape without significant damage over here, 100% of analysts surveyed told me so.”

“That’s not— I wasn’t _encouraging_ —” Prowl’s expression twitches. “You did not even wait five hours!”

Wow, what blind idiots think Prowl doesn’t have emotions? “Yeah, I took a nap,” Ricochet says.

Prowl’s vents deepen in some kinda breathing exercise. He’s looking — other than slagged off — much better than he was, in good enough repair for Ricochet to read more than ‘tired’ off of him. He’s still scuffed to the pit, but his patches are clean and filed, and his circuitry’s fixed enough to deal with that limp he’d had. Makes sense, they’ve got state of the art repair around here, because it’s _apparently_ their new fragging _central command_ , and Ricochet’s never gonna get out of this alive.


	12. Chapter 12

“Please. Please, please, just,” Smokescreen groans, plonking his face down into his arms at the table across from Ricochet. “Can you tell me _what the frag_ that was about?” He raises a hand to wave erratically at Ricochet, his field-patched wounds, his disguise, and the interview room in general.

Ricochet shrugs, a languid gesture that requires impressive effort and ability given how thoroughly he is again restrained. “Wanted to look around, maybe escape, nothing crazy. What about you? What brings you here?”

“Oh, you know,” Smokescreen says, voice distorting oddly into the observation room (he is too close to the microphone). “Emergency alarm screeched me awake for a late night all hands infiltration response.” He sits up. “But no, whatever, I didn’t mean that part. I actually put short odds on immediate breakout so you won me some shanix.” 

On the other side of the observation window, Prowl downshifts the security analysis he is running. ::Who was in that betting pool?:: he asks. 

::No one sir, rapport-building joke!:: Smokescreen says (Prowl queues a reminder to check, after an endless set of Ricochet-related urgent analyses). “I meant, why are you panicking _worse_ now?”

Ricochet shifts slightly. Is he panicking? His behavior (running unprepared for an exit) does suggest panic. 72%.

Smokescreen leans back in his chair and rubs at his face with a hand. “I thought you talked to Prowl and got things cleared up.”

“Yep.” Ricochet sits stiff, plating clamped down. “Had a fragging _intense_ chat with your scary boss, then stepped out to commit a capital offense, that’s been my day.”

Capital offense? Is he admitting outright to espionage? 3, 4%, no. Oh, assault on the Prime. Misinformed.

“Ah, nope,” Smokescreen says. “Caste decorum laws have been struck since before the war even started. Read the — well, don’t read the base text unless you’re a fragging masochist, but Primal etiquette’s passe now, Rico.”

Prowl looks over at Optimus. The shot to his knee hit cabling and had likely hurt. Smokescreen dug the (small, low-powered) bullet out with a dismissive shrug and told Optimus to keep off of it. Optimus stands up to reach for the intercom.

::Don’t touch that button, Optimus.:: Smokescreen says. ::He’s too freaked, we gotta work our way up to the Prime thing.::

“I mean, don’t shoot the Prime. That’s a... please don’t shoot the Prime, it’s not a capital offense but it’s a terrible idea. You’ve fragged up a little here.” Smokescreen shrugs and stretches. “But hey, no one died.” He hesitates. “No one died, right? Ricochet, when we asked for injuries, ‘dead’ counts as an injury.” So far, Ricochet seems to have been telling the truth in this at least. There have been no injuries reported apart from Optimus and Mirage, and check-ins are still coming in but have been received for 95% of personnel.

“Pit, no! I just... put on a costume and wandered around lost, if we gotta admit it,” Ricochet lies. Prowl has been pouring over maps and projected routes between points where Ricochet left evidence of passage and while there is no obvious _pattern_ , he is 94% sure Ricochet was at no point appreciably _lost_.

“Good, good. Not a bad look, by the way,” Smokescreen gestures with a light pen towards an Autobrand decal. “Multistable nanites? Where’d you get that set up?”

The Autobrand dissolves into scuffed white, blending back into the plating underneath. “Spec Ops souvenir.”

“What about the visor? I feel like I would’ve noticed that one.”

“Storage bin in a medbay closet.”

::True. Access through K11, closet 7R.:: Red Alert is patched in from his office, where he is pulling apart feeds to trace back Ricochet’s path. 

“That was stop two, wasn’t it? After the storage container, in from the back of the medbay, to that closet. Where’d you go from there?”

“The hall with the, um, the tiling?”

Ricochet has been fairly cooperative so far, has provided a list of fifteen acts of minor vandalism to locks, vents, walls, and a cleaning drone. All damage Red Alert has been able to find is accounted for, but Ricochet remains evasively inarticulate over the precise timeline and itinerary of his breakout.

::Make him use their map labels.:: 

“Would that be I12?” Smokescreen asks, tapping his pen against a datapad.

“I don’t know,” Ricochet says. 

::Lying,:: Prowl points out, in case Smokescreen missed it. 

Smokescreen laughs and doodles a shrug glyph into the text chat between his datapad and the observation room console. ::Told you, we’re going nowhere without a map. Is it ready, Red Alert?::

Time is critical. Prowl is only 80% sure Ricochet did not leave a bomb or a piece of delayed sabotage during his breakout, and that number is slipping downwards as Ricochet continues to stall. Meanwhile, he is 96% sure Ricochet has at least an evacuation map of the Steel Promise in internal memory. This does not mean Red Alert had agreed to show a map without extensive argument.

::A few more edits,:: Red Alert mutters. ::He broke through a wall that’s not in the scrubbed version I had.::

Smokescreen pings acknowledgement and tilts his head at Ricochet. “Hey, why the frag did you wash out of Special Ops, anyway?” 

“Psych profile misfit,” Ricochet says. 

“Too naturally honest?” Smokescreen asks, folding down his datapad to lean over the table with a wry smile. 

Ricochet meets his gaze. The impassivity of the visor suits him. “Neutrals, Smokey. Cons are brutal to neutrals and I flinched.” 

Smokescreen subsides back to his chair and nods. He cocks his head towards the door and perks his wings as Hound pings for entry. “Hey, we’re cleared to look at a map!” 

Hound ignores a nod from Ricochet as he passes the (outdated, miscaled, stylized) map flimsies to Smokescreen.

“Thank you, Hound,” Smokescreen starts to lay the map on the table, then flicks it back up. 

Ricochet tenses very slightly, attention flicking from the departing Hound back to Smokescreen. 

Smokescreen leans in. “I’m tired, you’ve got fresh wounds,” he says, “What do you say you don’t pretend you don’t know how to read a map?”

Ricochet glances around the interrogation room, briefly studying the observation window. “Sorry, it’s just been real disorienting. I’ll do my best,” he lies. 

Prowl sighs and takes a seat to continue running route analyses as Smokescreen painstakingly pries a movement history out of Ricochet. Mirage follows along on a copy of the map, engaged, missing much of the broader nuance (he is not ready to take over Prowl’s Intelligence roles). Optimus watches Ricochet and occasionally turns to stare at the scrolling analysis summary on the console. Ironhide pings a single noise of annoyance from his corner of the interrogation room and stands there silently. Red Alert — Red Alert engages with Ricochet on every (100%, an even 100%, every single) detail he gives. 

“Alrighty so then this door ping as _Marshall_ —”

::Marshall, registered Autobot, marked as MIA on KGL-54 in my isolated records, _edited_ in the main system, with the versioning _wrong_ —:: 

“— where’d you get those credentials?” Smokescreen asks

“What?” Ricochet says, for the 18th time this interview. “I just added them, nothing fancy. There’s an admin shortcut for it.”

::It’s not an admin shortcut, it’s a _secret_ access reserved for IA and command security and I need to know how he found it, I’m prioritizing confirming his movement and I can’t find his console access and the logs are all —::

Smokescreen twirls his light pen. “We’re going to need some technical Q and A, too.”

Smokescreen works Ricochet through his night. Ricochet evades, and evades. Prowl runs route analysis and drops the chance of major sabotage down to 2% once he realizes that Ricochet has given enough of a verifiable overview for Prowl to check. There is no bomb. Prowl circles the conclusion where it is already prominently displayed on the console and clearly tags his data backup. Ricochet is trying to avoid revealing the precise technical details of his escape.

Mirage stares at a map, unmoving. Optimus digs fingers into his palms in an amateur attempt to stay focused. Prowl leans on his damaged doorwing to stay focused. Red Alert, through Smokescreen (whose notes slowly degrade into general indications of frustration), draws out the precise technical details of Ricochet’s escape.

“He was cutting back!” ::He got what he needed and started back!:: Everyone startles when Red Alert (still on comms with Smokescreen) bursts into the observation room and hands Prowls a small stack of data chips. “Look at these.”

“Hello, Red Alert,” Optimus says.

The data chips prove to contain excellent and detailed partial analysis of Ricochet’s latest adventure. Prowl puts aside the technical security notes that are outside his expertise and fills in the simulations and timeline analyses that are outside Red Alert’s expertise. 

“Look at the timeline, Prowl!” Red Alert says. ::He made contact with personnel! We need a complete list and everything everyone said.::

Prowl has looked at the timeline. “He... spent a joor wandering clearance 1 social areas?” 

Sparks snap from Red Alert’s seams. “Social engineering,” he hisses. “And he _succeeded!_ Prowl, he was cutting back to his cell! Was he cutting back to his cell?”

Based on the confirmed times and places in Red Alert’s data, “83% yes.” Prowl has a grim suspicion that impulse played a role in the decision. ::Smokescreen, ask why he cut through T112.::

Smokescreen squiggles his pen on the map between him and Ricochet. “So here, you’re on the roofs, exits in sight. Why did you cut through T112?” 

“T112?“ Ricochet says, leaning over the map and frowning. “I cut through T112? Slag, is that what happened? Frag. That was dumb.” There was potential for a plausible answer, but that is not one.

::Lie. He was heading back to his cell.:: 

::Really?:: Smokescreen asks, sketching a surprise symbol onto his datapad without looking up from the map. “Yeah, pitscrap, Ricochet.” ::Why?::

::96%. I don’t know.::

“So, you had a... c’mon Ricochet it’s fine, you had a friendly stroll ripping through but doing minimal damage to our security systems, infiltrated the rec room, and whimsically wandered around. And then you started to go back to your cell.”

“What?” Ricochet says for the 19th time. (Stalling for time 96%, obscuring sabotage 2%, obscuring technical security issues 71%.) He peers at the map. “Oh. I guess so. Yeah, it was on the way.”

“Why’d you head back?”

“Because I saw the patrol sweeping East 7 and I wanted the explosives out of G1-4?” Yes, that was the basis of Prowl moving there to intercept, after Optimus called in his sighting and heading.

::An improvised plan after his encounter with Optimus::

::He saw Optimus accidentally and bolted in panic?:: “This would be after you ditched three bundles of lockpicks and explosives and started taking your disguise off, right?” Smokescreen says. “Yeah, let me rephrase: why’d you stop heading back?”

Ricochet exvents. “I may have panicked a tick after running into an Autobot ‘bout twice my height.”

The encounter between Optimus and Ricochet is linked on Smokescreen’s datapad for easy reference. ::He knows the formal Primal salute,:: Optimus says. ::I suspect he has met a Prime before.::

Smokescreen examines Ricochet. “When’s the last time you met, um, a Lord Prime?” 

Ricochet glances around, fidgets like a cornered suspect. “I mean, a few hours ago? How long I been here?”

“I don’t mean Optimus.” Smokescreen waves. “Optimus isn’t throw yourself over a railing and run like an idiot scary.”

Ricochet straightens and sets a glare at Smokescreen. “He’s Prime, jump a railing and run is an easy decision when you got an authoritarian dictator and a bunch of Senate thugs on your aft.” (Goading, obscuring a motive 61%.)

He is scared of Optimus (96%, more than he is generally scared of Autobots, 77%). Primacy has a long and violent history. Ricochet is (91%) too young to be personally familiar, but Decepticon propaganda has a clear narrative on Primacy and what Optimus represents. Add in his obvious concern for punishment over the assault, goading is dangerous (obscuring a motive 90%). He is scared of Optimus, but more scared of something else (what Optimus represents).

“Oh frag,” Prowl says, drawing some startled looks. ::That’s not why he ran. Call, Smokescreen::

Smokescreen pings acknowledgement. “Look, Optimus wasn’t an immediate threat. Why’d you run?”

“Primes are the rotten core of a corrupt system keeping me, slaggin’, I’m literally a prisoner’s why I ran — I, what the frag, of _course_ I ran from th-the Prime, Primes slag Cons!”

::He’s lying.::

“You’re lying.” Smokescreen says. ::Prowl what am I doing?::

::He’s figured it out.:: Prowl shakes his head and hits the intercom. “Tell me everything that gave it away and I’ll promise you will not be executed for at least three cycles.”

Ricochet’s visor flicks from the intercom speaker over to the observation window. “Three cycles conscious time,” he says. 

“Two cycles, excluding any time unconscious.” The bargain is easy. Prowl still does not anticipate an execution. A lot can happen in three cycles.

“Deal.”

“Deal,” Ricochet says. He is quiet, but the microphone automatically rebalances his voice to a clear volume in the observation room. “Well. Prime’s a big fragging giveaway on his own.” 

Smokescreen gestures impatiently. “Just get on with it, Ricochet.”

Ricochet looks at the window. “You got moved here and it’s a promotion, not an exile, base is covered in construction and filled to bursting with new bots, ain’t been willing to h — no one talked to me for forever because Prowl set the clearance for knowing about me at command high and too much of command here is recognizable, Red Alert and Ratchet are top of their damn fields, you got half the Primal Vanguard here and integrated into long terms posts.”

After a moment, he adds, “ _And_ Prowl just now up and said something big was going on.”

Red Alert rounds on Prowl. Prowl ignores him and presses the intercom again. “Continue.”

“What?” Ricochet says (20). “I’m suddenly in the middle of ‘Bot central command ain’t enough of a reason to panic?”

“Finish the thought, Ricochet, and I’ll give you two more cycles,” Prowl says (still excluding unconscious time, to be fair to the spirit of the agreement; he’ll have to start tracking Ricochet’s sleep somehow). 

Ricochet nods at the window. It is hard to tell through the visor, but it looks suspiciously like he is watching Prowl in particular. “Well,” he says. “You obviously ain’t gonna just sit in the Promise, wrong resources, no space, no point. Plus, you took the Fornax bridge and cut the ‘Cons off from Helex couple cycles back, and if you take Strack City here you’ll get the Pavar bridge, move a little quiet and you can do it before anyone catches on. Hold those two bridges long enough to run a train and you’ll’ve pivoted the whole fragging front and — if you don’t frag it — gotten easy control on the whole sector.”

“Thank you Ricochet,” Prowl says. He releases the intercom and faces Optimus. “We can no longer afford to let him escape.”

Optimus stares back, once again awake and focused. Red Alert is sparking more than is strictly healthy. “ _Major_ intelligence breach. We need everything from him,” Red Alert says.

“Dang,” Smokescreen says. “You a tactical hobbyist or what, here?”

Ricochet squirms in his chair to try to face the observation window straight on. “What the frag am I going to do with that? I got no timeline, no credibility at the Advance, and no fragging reason to share with any fragging one! It don’t matter to me! I don’t give a single scrap what you’re doing here.”

“We need to scan him!” Red Alert appeals to Optimus. “I need to know his escape plans, his mission, his potential points of contact—”

“I won’t do anything,” Ricochet says to the window. “I didn’t plant anything I ain’t told you about — wait slag, listeners and bouncers on seven soldiers. I’ll tell who, whatever. I’ll, I’ll give you my full route, and I’ll show Red how I hacked up the credentials. I’ll — put me in stasis until you’ve capped the bridge! I’ll give you my medical overrides.”

Smokescreen is technically presiding medic on the scene, usual role limits put aside for the emergency. ::Smokescreen, is that medically viable?::

::Frag. I think so? That's not my specialty, sir. But he’s been shaking off sedation like a _pro_.::

“Too risky,” Red Alert says. “Between sedation overrides, monitoring resources, and general risk factors in movement — we need to scan him!”

Optimus stands up and walks to the window, ignoring the camera feeds to get a closer look into the room. “We only force processor scans in immediate emergency situations.”

Prowl cycles a vent. “This qualifies,” he tells Optimus. “We need to know whether he has means and plans to share the information, and what they are.” Ricochet will not consent to a sufficiently deep scan — 93%. “We need to scan him.”

Optimus does not look away from Ricochet. “This may end any chance of him cooperating with us willingly.”

71%. “It may not,” Prowl says. “He hardly has grounds to feel betrayed, it is how we met.”

Optimus shifts his attention over at that. “Even so, he’s been cooperative. Relatively cooper—”

“Anglin’ for a second date, Prowler?” Ricochet is contorted to face observation, and leaned over the interview table to speak clearly into the embedded microphone. He is (90%) watching Prowl. 

Prowl’s attention shoots to the intercom button, a reflexive sanity check that (unfortunately) confirms it is off. 

::Comms!:: Red Alert hisses, lunging to the light controls, flipping the interview room into nearly painful brightness and the observation room almost complete darkness, until it should be physically impossible to look through the window rather than just extremely difficult.

Prowl has nothing to contribute to comms. He presses the intercom briefly, then reconsiders and simply flicks the switch on it. “You need to be scanned to verify that you have not shared and have no means or plans to share this information,” he explains to Ricochet. 

“I, yeah, I ain't said nothing and I got no means and plans.” Ricochet’s visor flickers and resets against the bright lights. He nods. “I can send you that.”

That is not precisely... “Do you consent to a scan?” Prowl asks.

“Mutually quarantined, through second degree,” Ricochet says. “I ain’t gonna give core access. We been over it, Prowler.”

“Anything less than core won’t be good enough,” Red Alert says. “He’s demonstrated specific skills in on the fly memory editing, there’s _no way_ we can trust a shallow scan.”

Ricochet winces. “Yeah, figured.”

Optimus is frowning. Mirage is expressionless, gaze flicking between everyone else in the room. Red Alert is scrolling rapidly through the consoles and datapads.

“‘Yeah, figured,’” Smokescreen repeats. “Meaning you’ll do it?

“Nah.” Ricochet laughs, with a vocal glitch in the middle. “I’ll, frag, fight to the end I guess.”

Optimus switches the intercom off. “I don’t like this,” he says.

Of course not, no one does. “Sir,” Prowl says. ::Optimus. If he is able to pass this information on, absolutely everyone on this base has over 90% likelihood of dying.::

Optimus turns back to the window. “I believe you.” He slumps, a tiny change in posture mostly noticeable due to the amplification by the size of his frame.

Prowl pauses with a finger on the intercom. “It will not hurt him, unless he has been reprogrammed in a rare way,” (43%, and 3% in a way beyond Ratchet’s ability to handle.) “He is only frightened.” Where ‘only’ means Prowl is continuing to assess him as a potential ally, not that his fear is irrelevant.

“Prowl,” Optimus says. He looks away, to Ricochet, then to the main console display. “354:31:2 Iacon time. I authorize a hostile interface with the prisoner.” Then back to Ricochet, who has turned towards Smokescreen but is ignoring him to stare at the table between them. “And I hope I am wrong to do so.”

Prowl, too, hopes that Ricochet truly has no hostile intentions, though that actually has no tactical bearing on the correctness of the decision.

::It needs to be done,:: Prowl says. He presses the intercom. “Red Alert, Ratchet, and I are each qualified to carry out a sufficiently thorough scan.” Optimus is as well, of a very different sort, but he cannot be risked. “You may also select a second to act as observer, or else logs will be tracked in an external memory. Do you have a preference in who would carry it out?”

“Yeah, Prowl, please. No sparked observer.” Ricochet’s answer is immediate.

It takes a moment to rebalance. Ratchet is the obvious choice, if only to stall for time to bring him in (82% Ricochet is aware of this consideration). A trap? No matter, he has made the offer. “Very well. Hold a breem.” 

Ricochet jerks a nod and stares at the tabletop. 

Prowl needs to exit his analysis, return chips and chords to proper storage, and set up the interrogation equipment.

When Prowl enters the interrogation room and Smokescreen gets up to trade places, Ricochet is still fixed in place, watching the table.

Smokescreen fidgets as Prowl sets up. ::Hey. Um, should I be here, sir?::

Prowl pauses and looks up. Smokescreen’s doorwings are hitched high, and he does not meet Prowl’s gaze. He keeps glancing at Ricochet and looking away. Smokescreen would like to leave (87%), but (like Optimus) feels an uncertain obligation to stay. Ricochet does not look up (he likely has some preference, but will not share it at this time). “No,” Prowl says. “Dismissed.”

Ricochet pays no attention to Smokescreen as he leaves. He is venting fast, jittering against his restraints (not resigned, ready for a fight). His gaze flickers around the room, head tilting, claws digging into the floor. When Prowl requests his arm, Ricochet lands his attention on him and _grins._

Prowl pauses, connector cord held ready. “Why are you smiling?”

“Huh? Nothing, don’t know.” Ricochet sets his face to a more neutral expression, drops his arm on the table, and slides back a port covering. (He still has a slight smile.) “Um. Are you going to hack me?” 

Behind Ricochet, Ironhide shifts his weight at the blunt word choice. “Yes,” Prowl says. He plugs in.

The assist box he is using is slow and requires high computation for the sake of higher end security and assault abilities. It is a heavy duty tool, and Prowl engages across the line with full force, all defenses engaged (Ricochet is projected 89th percentile of difficulty in adversaries Prowl has hacked).

Engagement feels like freefall, bashing against a door that was not properly shut. 

Outer firewalls pin easily back and Prowl falls off balance into Ricochet, into flashes of — sensation, layered flickering thoughts, alive with sound and rhythm, a familiar mind. He catches vivid impressions — images and responses to Smokescreen, Prowl, the _buzzy shielded interrogation room,_ crackling nonsense in comms, _semi-symmetric lock mechanism_ and it’s disorienting and _funny._

Prowl draws back at speed, focus high, trying to find the trap, disentangling until he can again separate his thoughts from Ricochet.

Ricochet laughs and swirls around him, thoughts bright and legible (and overlapped and chaotic), a swirl of recent knowledge — _primes moving the front — lock in T17 still on the factory password — gonna die —_ and very little else. Where context and memory should connect, thoughts instead cut off into void.

There is _nothing here._

_Yeah guess I panicked a little, sue me. Hiya! Sup?_

Ricochet clings close alongside as Prowl searches memories, not fighting but saying _hello hey what are we looking at,_ intimate and familiar and twining in close enough to make Prowl reflexively pull back again. 

Ricochet lets him back off until he is no longer _uncomfortably close_ , mirrors his retreat and dances back to a quieter distance. 

_Oops, sorry, sorry mech! Assumed we were close._

Prowl can see the thought, unguarded and unrooted and innocent. _You don’t know who I am or what I’m doing here._

_Nah. Just know I like you. Whatcha lookin’ for?_

_Your memories. Where are—_ at a second check, he finds the partition, a wall through Ricochet’s processor, a fault in the accessible mind where threads of thoughts and feelings cut off into unconscious electricity.

 _Guess they’re partitioned off, huh?_ Ricochet offers, following Prowl’s dig through his mind at a more socially normal but still unselfconsciously close distance. (He is close enough for Prowl to read a shot of deep _terror_ — _what do they want from me_ that should almost be incongruous but is wrapped tight and seamless into Ricochet’s mind.)

Prowl sees Ricochet’s empty awareness of the partition. Ricochet knows what it is but not what it means, a sliced slip of knowledge like, like a fresh construct onlined with a packet of military espionage tricks.

Partitions, outside the war, were once a tool of mercenaries or a mutilation done to trafficked mechs. Working as an Enforcer, Prowl developed competence at identifying and picking through them. This is a — _autonomic recode (can’t decrypt — thoughts ain’t meant to be there)— itchy — hard partition — military grade — hastily constructed — over-resourced — needs a key._

 _A key?_ An external cue to unlock the partition. Indicates a handler elsewhere, plans for retrieval—

 _An external passphrase to allow the wall to come down, yeah!_ Ricochet recites.

 _What is it?_

_Dunno. We held by ‘Bots or ‘Cons here?_

Prowl’s handler identification calculations glitch out. _This is Autobot custody._

 _Then I betcha it’s,_ He sees, even as Ricochet answers easily, _All hail Megatron._

 _All hail Megatron,_ Prowl says and the partition was not a wall but a floor and the floor goes out from under them and Ricochet’s mind fills with a crashing swirl of sound and information and decisions and thoughts filling in a symphony on top of the stripped tune playing before—

Then it shutters right back out and the partition resets. 

_Wow I got a lotta memories I ain’t using right now,_ Ricochet says, openly disoriented by the rush and retreat. _Hey, is it just me, or does it look like I ain’t about to let you see ‘em? ‘Cause I threw that slag back up faaaast. Also, ugh. That was a _mess_ — what a _fragged_ partition. Looks like someone slagged some better ones._

Prowl picks at the edges where the partition clicked in, throws flags at nodes that hooked and unhooked memories during the rush, while Ricochet integrates scraps of lingering context.

 _Ah. You’re interrogating me. Prowler?_

_Prowl,_ he corrects. Flagging takes very little time, with how little Ricochet actually knows right now. 

_Prowl. Rad._ Ricochet sinks back to a corner, watching from a wary distance. Odd flickers of fear, trust, and uncertainty strum across his mind. Prowl ignores it.

The edges of the partition, even having just seen the unlock and the reset, reveal no easy seams or access points to fray at. Prognosis is poor, so Prowl tries a basic brute force yank at the fault, and the whole structure shudders — _hard partition means crosses in and out of base code and hardware_ , so that temperature, balance, reality integration _convulse_.

_Oh frag — Fragging ow!_

Prowl flicks his wings to re-ground himself in his actual body and sighs. He releases his grip on the edge of the partition. _Does this typically have a high rate of success?_

Ricochet shrugs, motion and impression synched smoothly in frame in processor (guileless). _Sorta seems like I’d be dead if it didn’t?_ he says. _Takin’ a guess._

Prowl catalogues the memories Ricochet left. It’s, it’s not _organized_ in any way, but there’s very little there to go through. Knowledge, with sharp edges where it was roughly cut — confident (accurate) conjecture on Autobot movements in the sector and a single layer of justifications (staffing, recent movements, as stated before) _—no one to tell, nowhere to go, useless slagging secret woulda just deleted it if I coulda gotten away with it—_ disjointed information on how to bypass several types of lock or security — _plastic explosives are usually overkill_ — how to break or sidestep common encryption— _you can clone the IA profile in an Autobot network using an np-overbalance_ —and — fear. 

He is seeped in deep, sincere fear, bordering on paranoia, noticeable both in the unpartitioned parts of mind accessible to Prowl and in the way Ricochet watches him sort through, nervous, unable to even try to hide persistent anxiety over impending — torture, execution, betrayal, failure. He is scared — a newspark who only knows he is captured, a spy who has sheltered his leftover self with paranoia, scared of the situation in general and of Prowl in particular.

 _I thought you liked me,_ Prowl says. _Why are you so afraid of me?_

Ricochet conspicuously sorts through his own mind. _I think I’m afraid of everyone,_ he says pragmatically. _If I don’t like some people I’m afraid of, I’d never have friends._

He is, in this particular setup, unable to be anything but honest. Prowl finds he does not appreciate that as much as he would expect to.

Prowl goes over his memories again, skipping over the more personal inner impressions, collecting the tactical and security information neatly for the external monitor. Then he disconnects.

Ricochet blinks his visor and resettles his plating. It is, to his memories, his first interface.

Prowl collects and puts away the connectors, labels the external monitor dump and sets it to save the record. Ricochet watches.

::What did you learn?:: Red Alert asks. 

That he is prepared for hostile interrogation from either side. That he is good enough that any information scraped will be difficult to obtain and should be assumed to have been edited. “That he likes me,” Prowl says.

Ricochet laughs and hides his face in his hands. “Fraggin’ _why_ do I, though?”

“And that he knows how to set up hard partitions with rough preparations. He has an aggressive pre-partition ready for rapid deployment, set to check at a verbal cue. Further details are not time critical.” 

Fresh from a closer read on his emotional state against his frame language, Prowl recognizes wariness schooled down to appear bland and slightly disoriented as Ricochet squirms in his restraints and looks around the room. He is tense. Nothing but a collection of intuitive feelings and unsourced knowledge of spycraft (and 65% a secondary key or time-based partition expiration). He could be safer to have around like this, 12% less likely to cause a major incident leading to damage, 71% more likely to suffer a major incident. “All hail Megatron.” Prowl adds. 

Ricochet blinks, shies back a little bit.

“By the way,” Prowl says. “What did you tell the Advance about the Wandering Star?”

Ricochet laughs, full bodied, head thrown back. “Not a thing,” he says, voice uneven with mirth. “Gave ‘em your spec logs and half your extraction plans, nothing else.” (Prowl had suspected as much.)

“Thank you,” Prowl says. ::Little gain in information, unfortunately,:: he tells the group. ::However, Optimus, I do not believe our rapport is irreparably damaged.:: This was within the range of acceptable outcomes. ::Preliminary analysis of this encounter, consider the likelihood of being able to scrape usable data from Ricochet dropped from 57% to 13% per new information.:: He is very good.

He nods at Ricochet. “Your fear and resulting reckless behavior appear to be spark-deep at the moment, and I would rather not corral an effective newspark with those traits. In some respects things are simplified. As you have conjectured, we will be moving soon. Moving you securely without tipping you off was already a difficult proposition. Moving you securely may be simpler given that that is no longer a concern.”

::It would be _simpler_ if we just shot him,:: Red Alert grouses. He does not contradict Prowl’s analysis.

::You should not make that kind of joke with Optimus on the line,:: Prowl reminds him. 

::We are not going to shoot him,:: Optimus puts in. ::Is he cleared as an active threat?::

Prowl eases up the settings on the restraints. “You are not cleared as an active security risk,” he says. Ricochet, for a moment, believed himself to have no means or intention of leaking information, but that was likely (74%) an engineered belief. “You will remain under high security guard for now.” 

Ricochet tentatively works stiff joints. “Stasis?” he asks.

::Yes.:: Red Alert says.

“Potentially,” Prowl says. There is a security benefit to sedating him for transport, but Prowl would rather be able to talk to him. They will most likely be in high security medical transit together.

“What does high security mean?”

“In part, that we will not tell you very much. I’m sure you understand.” (98%, and a full 88% that he will harbor no resentment.) They will leave him in the interrogation room, under observation shifts, until Red Alert puts together a transit plan.

Prowl considers Ricochet, internally sorting out lingering impressions passed on over his unguarded hardline. He is tired and scared. “Do you need anything?”

Ricochet’s mouth twists into a crooked smile. “Nah. I’ll be good,” he says.

Prowl nods. “Just speak into the microphone if that changes.”

-

Prowl is on medical order against unnecessary duties, including observation shifts. He is meant to be resting if he is not carrying out critical administrative functions. He simply happens to be working on his critical functions in the observation room during Hound’s observation shift, when Smokescreen enters the interview room to bring Ricochet fuel.

Ricochet has been sitting quietly (fidgeting endlessly, actually, but that appears to be a meaningless default), and has made no requests. He is however on a Tyrest-compliant ration schedule. Smokescreen brings two cubes, and takes the opposite seat once again.

In practiced procedure, Smokescreen drinks from each, and offers Ricochet first pick. 

Ricochet takes a cube and gestures a toast before he drinks. They exchange pleasantries over fuel (almost indistinguishable from a typical rec room lunch conversation).

“Hey, you want to hang on to the paint and visor? Red’s officially encouraging it.”

Ricochet swallows. “Yeah, easier to hide me, sure. Can do. I kinda dig the look.”

Smokescreen snorts and shrugs. They drink in silence, mostly. 

Then Smokescreen tilts his head at Ricochet. “Finished my copy of your monitor log, by the way. You like Prowl. Liked Prowl. You still like Prowl? You good with him as your primary contact?”

Ricochet shrugs and toys with his cube. “Yeah, I do. I am.”

“Okay.” Smokescreen leans forward, pushing his cube aside. “Don’t get me wrong. Prowl taking primary for you is the highlight of my shift. But what the frag? _Prowl?_ You, um, you doing okay in here?”

The light in Ricochet’s visor flickers. “Yo Smokey, that’s your CO.” 

Smokescreen nods. “And I’d die for him. But he’s also super abrasive and you’re terrified he’s going to kill you. He doesn’t have to handle your case. I can do it. Or Ironhide, or Inferno. Frag, Hound’s qualified if you want him.”

“Hey,” Ricochet says. “If I let knowing someone might kill me get in the way of me liking them, I’d never have friends.”

“Nah, I trust Prowl, and I get him.” Ricochet pauses, drains the rest of his cube before continuing. “I think he might hate me, but I like him. And, well. I’ve hacked him, stabbed him through the wing, and slit his throat. But y’know? I’m pretty sure he don’t care. Not like, he understands and forgives me, I mean, it straight never occurred to him to care about those things.”

Ricochet shakes his head with a little laugh, and slides the empty cube across the table. “He _cares_ that I talk too much, work for the ‘Cons, and don’t live up to my fragging potential. And... that’s, mech, that’s something special. He gets it. ’Cept the talking too much. I'm slaggin’ charming and I'm gonna wear him down on my personality for sure.”


	13. Chapter 13

It’s not like Ricochet _wants_ medical attention. Seems a little unfair to glare at him like that.

“I sedated you,” Ratchet says. “Checked Prowl over, did some small maintenance, and finally started on that recharge I’ve been missing.” He grabs a fistful of mesh and patchplate on his way to Ricochet. “Slept pretty well. Of course, that’s my mistake, of course, I should have known I couldn’t look away for _one shift_ without _some idiot_ smashing across base, getting in fights, and jumping over fragging railings, so, please rate the _quality_ and _severity_ of your fragging pain, Ricochet.”

Maybe he’s glitching, because ‘trapped in an exam room with an angry Autobot doctor coming at you’ is a fragging horror scene, but Ricochet can only laugh, and try not to laugh so much he gets in trouble. “Sorry doc,” he says. “Honestly, I’m fine, I can walk, I think the gurney’s just to keep me tied up — yo, I’m pretty sure you ain’t supposed to just undo those.”

Ironhide makes a funny noise that’s got both agreement and alarm. “You ain’t! Ratchet—”

“Weird, I don’t remember asking either of you,” Ratchet muses as he undoes the cuffs, straps, and snaps keeping Ricochet pinned back. 

Ironhide steps in protectively and Ricochet don’t even mind — Ratchet’s moving a little erratic, tossing restraints away and pulling tools out of drawers like he’s mad at them. Ironhide gives Ricochet a narrow glare. “I’m staying in the fragging room this time, anyway.”

Ratchet snorts, leans over into Ricochet’s space, and holds an arm up. “Take a swipe at me, Ricochet.”

“I ain’t—” Ratchet grabs Ricochet’s arm, sticks a sensor on it, and wraps Ricochet’s hand around his wrist. Ricochet retracts his claws on that hand. One of them stutters, and one of them doesn’t retract at all.

“Squeeze as hard as you can,” Ratchet says, holding his hand in place. 

Ricochet obeys on reflex, best he can, which produces a weak spasm. “Uh yeah, I think something’s up with that wiring.” 

“No scrap something’s up with that wiring. Also the cabling, your hydraulics, and probably your _processor_.” Ratchet’s running scans and looking over parts with belligerent efficiency. Ratchet seems to run gruff by default, but it’s drifting into dangerous territory and Ricochet would like to back the frag up, thank you.

Ricochet takes his hand back — frag his fingers are really not responding right — and squirms. “Hey, weren’t ya here for my codes?” 

Ratchet looks up from a warped piece of metal in his shoulder — energy sink, please don’t look at that. “What codes?” 

“For sedation?” Frag, they could also just drain or volt him out to induce stasis. It’d be easier to get it to take, and also more likely to accidentally kill him.

Ratchet’s mouth thins. His grip on his wrench tightens ominously. “What. Codes.”

“My... antiviral profile validation tags?” Even if they’re not going to use them, they’re not bad intel, c’mon. Who briefed him? Is Ratchet actually in the chain of command here? He’s kinda...

“You’ve got a positive-exception firewall,” Ratchet says, staring in horror. 

It’s a little much. Okay, yes, it was illegal and it’s kinda dangerous, but at this point how is it much of a surprise?

“That’s— when was it last _tuned_ —” Ratchet lurches into action, hardlining into a medical port before Ricochet can flinch away. “Who the frag did that?”

Ricochet grants the access that Ratchet doesn’t actually need to ask for, and feels Ratchet’s solid presence skim over his vitals and search his specs. His firewall mods ain’t listed — illegal and dangerous, right — Ricochet passes over the medical details before Ratchet can go hunting.

Medical connection has even less emotional info than a boxed interface, but Ratchet’s frame language is loud as he stops and collects himself. Ratchet spends a klik focused on the connection, then he unplugs and takes a breath. “This is exactly why we’re doing a full physical.” 

Fragging — distraction failed. “I’m _stable_ , and I’m comfy, docbot, and ain’t nobody wants me doing nothing more active than sittin’ pretty anyway,” Ricochet says.

“Hm,” Ratchet says. He reaches over and gently taps an exposed wire poking out of Ricochet’s hip and it’s like fragging _rust mites_ fragging _shredding_ along his leg in a line of _pain._

Ricochet can’t entirely suppress a hiss of pain and his leg spasms and throws obvious sparks anyway. “Okay, okay. Since you asked,” Ricochet says. “I’m experiencing radiating pain from my left knee to my lateral saccral metadyle. At a seven.”

“Interesting phrasing.” Ratchet looks over the section in question. “You have medical training?”

“Not in particular,” Ricochet shrugs. “It’s a recurring condition.”

Ratchet nods and grunts. “Yeah, no wonder, after whatever back alley _quack_ replaced your relay with this bundle of slag.”

Knock Out’s no back alley quack. Ricochet half had to blackmail him to get him to install that relay, and it’s fragile to fragging havoc rounds, but it gives him a bypass on most stasis effects and is an important part of a stealth reroute and “It’s fine, I like it, it only causes problems if I ain’t careful ‘round weaponized EM.”

“I can _see_ several problems it’s causing _right now,_ ” Ratchet snaps. Ratchet’s tracing the fixtures down, scanning through parts, making regular noises of disgust and getting more and more worked up as he takes in the details of Ricochet’s frame. He’s completely absorbed and he’s _paying attention_ and Ricochet’s pretty sure he should do something but he’s coming up blank on exactly _what._ Ratchet hums in a way that’s almost a growl. “What malpracticing butcher did this, and were they sadistic or only stupid?”

Ratchet’s picking at, hah, he did that one to himself, the answer is stupid, that’s a slag part don’t do medical experiments on yourself. Ricochet flinches back, flicking plating over the connection that feeds that into his comms system. 

“Who?” Ratchet asks, again.

Real question? Ricochet shuffles for the first doctor he’d kick out an airlock unprovoked. “Scalpel? I been near slagged a few times, I got more ‘n a few weird parts.”

“I swear, if I ever get my hands on him I’ll strip him down myself. Who the frag put these mods—” He’s drifting into genuinely angry, made more obvious when he actively pushes away his irritation. “Ricochet, you’ve got several dangerous configurations in your systems. If you have a complete list of your mods, we need it to make sure you don’t fragging _die_ of an error cascade.” 

Frag, he’s going to go through everything and he’s _mad_ — but, but Ratchet’s assuming these were done to him uninformed. Okay, okay, that’s not all bad, Ricochet’s an MTO guinea pig who definitely respects medical ethics and procedure as much as Ratchet obviously does.

Distraction’s a bust, and Ricochet’s got a strong feeling that intimidation ain’t going to get him anywhere, so he flails for one last try. “Please don’t take my mods.” 

Ratchet startles enough he physically draws back. “We’re not going to...” He trails off, looking over to Ironhide. They don’t stare at each other long enough to comm very much. 

Ratchet sighs and taps on Ricochet’s upper arm to gesture to a subspace pickpocket mod, offline since it shares a connection with his hard disabled subspace systems. “This one is dangerous. It’s a few shorts from melting out a major line. I’m not going to...” Ratchet draws his hands back to himself. “You need a lot of replacements.”

Ricochet knows, but what’s he even got to offer? “It’s fine if I don’t overload it. C’mon, I’ll, I can’t use anything anyway, you said it yourself, my mods are mostly slag, and I’m gonna be sedated anyway. Please, it’d be work and parts, and they ain’t killed me so far.”

Ironhide and Ratchet are trading glances, but it doesn’t look like they’re on comms. Plus side here, Ratchet’s either a very good actor, or not aware of any plans to just kill him while he’s under. Ricochet exvents. “Look,” he says. “The firewall is stable. It got tuned less than a megacycle back, it’s gotta be clean for mnemo work. You can just sedate me with permissions, easier time for everyone than picking apart my failsafes. You’re here to put me under, right?”

“Yes,” Ratchet says, squinting at Ricochet. “All of this is...” He shifts to look at Ironhide and they swap comms for a sec before Ratchet returns his attention to Ricochet. He touches — gently — the plating on Ricochet’s leg. “I’d like to replace at least this relay while you’re under.”

No, no. “I — please, no. I’m stable.”

Ratchet's hand flutters before he firms his grip. “Ricochet. I’m not going to—” 

Ironhide cuts in with something on comms. Ricochet picks up broken bits of static, but gets way more meaning out of the overt glowering passing between Ironhide and Ratchet. Argument. Heated. Ricochet’s ready for one of them to pull a weapon.

Eventually, Ratchet shakes his head. Ironhide steps around to stare down Ricochet and says, “You ain’t stable. Ratchet’s gonna fix the slag that might kill you if someone shakes you too hard, and he’s gonna mute some of the extra spy slag you snuck by us the first time. We ain’t gonna change or take anything big out of you while you’re down.”

Yeah, cool, so that looks a lot like Ratchet refusing to lie and Ironhide stepping in to do it for him. Ricochet tests his weight, and Ironhide grabs on to him with a tight grip.

“Make the changes while I’m awake?” Ricochet tries.

Ratchet’s face scrunches and Ricochet thinks he’s going to refuse immediately. He surveys his damage again. “The new trauma, sure. But the internal fixes are too dangerous, not to mention painful, to keep you up for. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.” Frag. Frag, they’re doing this. Okay. Ricochet picks a spot on the wall to watch.

There’s a long pause before Ratchet speaks again. “I’m least likely to mess something up if you give me a list of your unlogged mods.” His voice is soft.

Ricochet shakes his head, pretends he’s got some choice here still. 

In his periphery, Ratchet nods. A scan washes over him. “Does the crimp you’ve got here ever bother you?” Ratchet asks, tapping at some cabling. 

Ricochet ignores the question. And the next one, and eventually Ratchet stops asking.

Ratchet picks at him in grim silence for a long while, until he runs out of slag to pick at. “Your viral profile?” he asks.

Yeah. Ricochet said he’d give that, and it’s a way better option than a physically forced stasis. He lets Ratchet plug in and passes him his keys — the last bypass profile a doctor put together for him. It’s been long enough that it ain’t gonna work perfect, but it’s what he’s got. 

“I’m going to sedate you,” Ratchet says, as he does it.

‘Bout time. Ricochet wishes he hadn’t said — well, no, he’d always rather see it coming, but, frag he’d had his calm, and now he’s feeling the sedation forcing his systems down like he’s dying and he can’t help fighting back because _he doesn’t want to die._

“Ricochet, look at me and relax!” Ratchet commands, leaning into his space. 

“Kinda opposite orders, there, doc,” Ricochet mumbles. The override is working, and the code is bringing him down so effectively that his reflexes are telling him to fight and he can’t move and the back and forth is _dizzying_ but a little nervousness ain’t any kind of counter to medical overrides keyed specifically to him — he slips under even through the horrible, what’ll they do while I’m under what’ll I be when I wake will I wake frag I hope I wake up.

-

He wakes up gradually, coming up from deep sedation into general fogginess. Stiffness registers, and soreness — surgical points, _frag_ —

“He’s awake,” Hound says from nearby.

Ricochet onlines his senses and thrashes — get brought up hard and fast by short ties to whatever he’s — adjustable berth, he’s tied to a berth and there’s an energy field up to boot, he’s somewhere new, tiny room with a vaguely medical look and workstations where Hound and Prowl are looking at him with mild concern. The bonds are sturdy and broad for comfort, even when he’s throwing his full weight against them they don’t do damage, only hurt where he jostles his still healing injuries. Ricochet writhes, trying to get an inventory of what they’ve done to him.

“Does everything feel in order?” Prowl asks.

Ricochet ignores Prowl and his fragging magical extrapolation abilities. The sparking bit on his leg is, not sparking, it’s been partially replaced, and when he tries the command to notch it against a stasis dump it hits a baffle, but it responds. He’s — everything he can find, everything he can check seems — well, he’s got way more baffles and mutes in — but he can’t find anything _bad_.

“Please say something,” Prowl says. “Verbal coherency is an important medical indicator.”

“Frag off,” he spits, still fighting panic and trying to find everything they did while he was helpless. He woke up, and pit yes, that’s a good thing, he thinks Prowl keeps promises, but he’s got four cycles of awake time before Prowl’s technically clear and Prowl seems like the kind of mech to have a real appreciation for the letter of a promise and four cycles of short wakes from sedation is — he may have signed himself up for fragging personalized torture here, whatever — what did they _do_ to him?

Prowl nods, gets up, and makes a mark on a datapad fixed to the wall. He starts picking up and putting away whatever he was working on at the desk. “I wanted to clarify,” he says, raising his voice slightly as Ricochet tests a chain looped over his shoulder. “Ratchet has warned us that you will wake repeatedly from sedation. These periods will not count towards our bargain. We are still not planning on execution.”

The tracker chip is secured better, and the inhibitors are turned up, and he can hardly fragging move, but Ricochet can’t find anything bad wrong with his frame. He slows down, running out of immediate things to check, and Prowl’s words properly register. 

Ricochet pauses. “‘Preciate it,” he says to Prowl as he pulls at his restraints more quietly. Red’s setup is secure — it’d be slow and obvious and take a few dangerous joint dislocations to get out. He’s hooked up to machines monitoring his vitals and there’s an extension on one, relaying to a port. 

Hound grabs a medical chip and feeds it in, taps something on the machine, and Ricochet feels sedation starting again.

Prowl finishes clearing his workspace and starts to leave. 

“Ain’t gonna stick around to chat?” Ricochet asks. He’s weirdly disappointed.

“No,” Prowl says. “I underestimated the amount of time it would take you to wake. I’m running late for a...” He hesitates and tilts his head. “I need to go coordinate a space rescue elsewhere in this sector.”

Ricochet’s still coming down from panic, so it takes a klik to register. Then he laughs. “Send my love to Roller,” he calls. It wins him a little wing flutter off Prowl’s departing figure. 

-

“You going to make a move?” Hound asks as soon as Ricochet’s awake enough to count.

“How?” Ricochet snaps, sitting up as much as he can. “How are you doing that? Is it the monitors? Is one of these monitors reading my mind?” That’s impossible, none are hooked in correctly for that. The time he woke up with Inferno on guard, Inferno hadn’t reacted until someone — Red Alert — had commed to tell him Ricochet was working his restraints. It’s all Hound, Hound’s called it every single time. 

“Trade secret,” Hound says.

“Yes, I will trade you for that secret.” Specialized sensors? His autonomics making noise? What noise? 

“Maybe later,” Hound says. “You going to move?”

“Yeah, yeah, just reorienting,” Ricochet says. He’s in a slightly different configuration now, and the room’s been rearranged some. So far, his self-checking hasn’t turned up anything missing. Almost all his best systems are entirely inhibited. At least they missed his internal magnets — those are deep wired, hard to find and nearly impossible to baffle. Mostly, though, he’s found lots of repairs. 

“What age is it Hound?” Ricochet asks, stretching in little tiny movements. “Are my grandchildren grown without me?” Hound gets organic references. It’s great. They’re leaving him enough slack to keep the claustrophobia down a bit, enough slack to move a little. But that’s not what Hound means. Ricochet leans forward to squint at the trabbac board. 

“It’s been about a joor since the last time you were awake,” Hound says. 

Ricochet blinks. “Seriously? Did you mute my antivirals? Some of them are general and —”

“Ricochet, I have no idea,” Hound says, pushing the laughter out of his voice. “I’m not a medic. But.” He frowns a little. “Ratchet said your stress response keeps on breaking in.” Ah, yeah, it would. Ricochet’s got more to practice on compartmentalizing.

“Cool,” he says, focused on the trabbac setup. “Hound. You ain’t cheated the board have you? There’s no way that sweeper can go there.”

“That’s what I told you when you insisted it go there last time,” Hound says.

That rings a faint, sleep-hazed bell. “Psh,” Ricochet says. “Admit it, trabbac’s more fun with loopy drugged rules. Black sweeper east 2.”

“I’ll admit it,” Hound says. “Ready?”

“Yeah, hit it mech.” And Hound slots in a fresh sedative. They’re taking longer to sink, something about rotating code that Hound probably shouldn’t’ve mentioned at all.

Hound moves some green pieces into a clump on the board — probably a strategy, Ricochet barely knows how to play this game. “Did you really betray the Decepticons to save some strangers on a spaceship?” Hound asks casually.

Pit, did he really? Put like that, it sounds drastic. “541 strangers,” Ricochet clarifies. “It’s more ‘n some. Some is... less than that. And I dunno, I’ve probably heard of one of ‘em at least. A lot of mechs, on a ship in dangerous space, just a nudge away from safety.”

“Sounds pretty heroic,” Hound says. 

“Nah, just opportunistic,” Ricochet says with expert flippancy. “Cavalry forward 3.” Is that a legal move? Whatever, nap time.

-

“I hear you hacked Prowl,” Hound says, apropos of fragging nothing while Ricochet is coming up.

Conversation with a half drugged prisoner would be pretty valuable if Ricochet weren’t as good as he is. “What?” Ricochet says. “Dish, mech.”

“You got data off him, didn’t you?” Hound asks, bits of wary, respect, and curious all mixed in there. “How?”

“Nah, not really.” Ricochet shrugs — not really, there’s this strap, but the intent is in his body language. “Prowl hijacked this stupid scraping aid, and then hacked me so hard he left some stray memories in my brain. Freak data connection and now we’re bonded. Also, did Red Alert seriously clear him being asleep in a room with me?”

Hound glances over to where Prowl is curled up. It’s about half a met away, the space they’re in ain’t roomy. Prowl’s in a cot pulled up into a seating position, loomed over by several monitors. Combined with the visible weld edges where his repairs are integrating, Prowl looks delicate. It hasn’t been long since that crash.

“You sayin’ I couldn’t take you in a fight?” Hound says, slotting a fresh chip in.

“I’m wondering how he ended up in the brig,” Ricochet says. This probably isn’t the brig. Ricochet’s got his own flimsy cot, too flimsy to restrain him well. He’s cuffed to basic standards, the main security feature is the force bars screening him off. There isn’t enough space for more — they’re definitely in transit, by the rattle and sway, a rail-assisted convoy. Like a train, for people who expect trains to derail and crash.

“This is a secure medical room and I am only resting,” Prowl says. He uncurls and — fragging, he was curled up around a datapad — turns his datapad on and checks it. “Hello Ricochet,” he says, and that lying fragger was definitely entirely asleep a few kliks ago, Prowl’s stretching and blinking awake like he thinks Ricochet ain’t gonna notice just cause he’s doing it without moving much.

Prowl’s got weirdly blatant tells once you’re paying attention. He’s too used to getting away with them because they’re physically very small. He straightens and glances at Hound.

Ratchet found his aux and extended comms, so Ricochet can’t feel the signals going by, but he ain’t blind to Prowl and Hound chatting for a bit. He can tinker in some of his comms with a mirror, some time, and something with a flat head under a milimet wide. Maybe a chipboard out of a monitor, if he smashes through a screen? Wouldn’t be step one, though — step one is probably shorting the stasis cuffs.

Ricochet drops his lockpicking and sits up — not guiltily, just a little surprised — as Hound ducks out the door. “Okay you definitely shouldn’t be alone with me,” he admonishes Prowl. Hound could be outside, but response times — it’s not that unsafe, but they’ve been treating him like he can do impossible slag and it’s not _consistent._

“Don’t worry.” Prowl switches off his datapad and puts it down. “I will not hurt you.”

“I’m,” Ricochet’s talking before he knows what he’s saying, whoops, “You’re — I’m — holy slag, are you _smiling?_ ” Prowl is joking — and there are _no witnesses_ , scrap, frelling Prowl.

Prowl rolls his optics like a sparkling and waves dismissively — Red Alert, Red Alert must know Prowler has a sense of humor. “You will not attack me. You are behind bars and mostly sedated, and”—he’s definitely smiling, smirking—”you like me.”

“Ugh,” Ricochet groans. “Safety partition is fragging embarrassing.” He pauses. It’s bad tactics. But — and it’s because he likes him. “I liked Scrapgrace,” he says. 

Prowl tries to place the name for a second. “Who?”

Ricochet pops a shoulder out from a strap so he can gesture a rough profile of Scrapgrace’s kibble. “Purple hauler, security mech at the Advance. I kicked him into a smelter so I could commit treason?”

“Oh,” Prowl says.

“Yeah,” Ricochet nods, trying to remember why he brought it up. He remembers, and stumbles on before he can forget again. “He was decent. Knew that when I killed him. Yeah. See, Prowler, if I let being ready to kill people get in the way of liking them —”

“You’d never get to have friends,” Prowl says. “I see.”

Ricochet’s pretty sure he does. It takes effort with how heavy he’s getting but he gives Prowl a fond grin and tries to gesture something vaguely affirmative before he gives up and goes back to sleep.

-

He wakes to a crack like someone’s smashed his audials — the room shudders, something outside the room crashes in a way that splits the air and rolls like — a bomb, detonating in solid metal and blasting heavy shrapnel into rock — overlapping thunder, echoes hard to pick out through screaming metal, screaming people, battlefield _noise._

He’s still in that train car, in the little medical room with Prowl, and Prowl’s still in the other end of the room and now so are Blaster, currently focused as Pit, and Hound, currently bleeding and trying to pass datapads to Prowl who is clearly fragging busy with other scrap. The room is shaking — Hound’s got a careful grip on his pistol that means it’s fully armed and he doesn’t want a misfire — and everyone is yelling at each other — silently, until the burst of explosion sounds dies down and some of the yelling slips off comms — “Blaster, what is that sound, do we need Hubcap?”

Blaster adjusts a hookup without saying anything out loud, and Prowl briefly glazes over while sending something out. Both of them frown at whatever’s happening. “Hound, get Hubcap if you can.”

Hound looks to Ricochet, currently pretzeling himself to try to get a razor burr against a frayable restraint. What’s going on, he mouths clearly to Hound.

“Are you doing this?” Hound asks, and Prowl snaps over to see Ricochet. Blaster turns away to focus on comms.

“Hubcap, Hound!” Prowl says, and Hound nods and climbs — their room is fragging _crooked_ , the ground’s going out — out the door, leaving a trail of energon. “Are you, Ricochet?”

 _”How?”_ Ricochet asks, drowned out by another bang — distant heavy mortar or a closer medium — “Doing fragging what?” He yells.

“We are being shelled,” Prowl says, probably — Ricochet’s mostly reading lips and Prowl keeps turning to look at slag.

Prowl flinches and reflexively grabs at his comms. Feedback screeches out from Blaster, who swears and looks up. “Lost the relay,” he says. “We’re jammed here, closest backup is—” Blaster glances briefly at Ricochet, but he’s pretty fully fragging distracted “— car 3, or if we move high enough to get a beacon signal.”

Prowl nods, grabs an armful of datapads, pulls a blaster, and fragging shoots a datapad left on his desk. He briskly checks over the room and shoots a few more datapads and both of the room’s computer towers.

Then he looks at Ricochet, gun up, residual heat shimmering the air from the last shot. Ricochet meets his gaze.

Prowl’s expression is unreadable. No, no, it’s just subtle. He’s calculating risk.

Another shell goes off in the distance.

Prowl adjusts his grip on the blaster — pries and pushes the catches and smoothly ejects the charge pack. “The explosions are focused elsewhere in the train. Remaining in this car is your safest course.” He tosses the empty blaster through the bars, and it clatters into a corner of Ricochet’s cage.

A Seeker engine screams by overhead and Prowl cocks his helm to track the sound. He sighs, almost invisibly. “We are being attacked from the north. I expect that a Decepticon ambush is set up in the lee cliffs, including mines on the route. I recommend and request that you stay here unless it is an emergency.” He tosses the blaster charge pack through the bars, into the corner opposite where he threw the blaster itself. 

Prowl’s got no fresh injuries Ricochet can see, but he needs a hand up from Blaster to get out of the door, and they leave with Blaster half-carrying him. There’s a funny lull in the Pit-noise all around them or maybe he imagines hearing Prowl mutter, “I don’t know why we bother restraining him. Will beacon 12 work for us?”

Yes, he’s good at getting out of restraints, but he’s still just a fragging mech, okay? It takes him several breems, a few painful crunches on his plating, and a lucky jostle from a close detonation to work himself free. He shakes off some painful levels of stiffness — not that painful, other than being _lousy_ with baffles and inhibitors, he’s in better physical condition than he’s been in a long while. They left patchplate and mesh on him in a way that conveniently covers his purple brand, though. He leaves that and collects the blaster and clip that Prowl left — for, what, self defense? Got enough shots in there to shoot out some cameras too — but frag, no, no angle.

Frag, Ricochet really doesn’t want to explain his magnets to Red Alert. If there’s another way to get the bars down, though, he doesn’t know it. The room slips a little more sideways with a scary creak. Ricochet’s never been in an active shelling that wasn’t an emergency, and Prowl — he wasn’t misreading that, right? Prowl basically gave him advice on how to slip out without getting immediately killed? What the frag, that was surprisingly dumb. Well, if he’s gonna get lucky. Ricochet waves at a camera, reaches over to the bar hookups, and picks the field with his magnets until — the bars flicker down and he dives through before they reset. 

The door out is already busted open, and it turns out the whole fraggin’ car’s derailed. An indirect hit towards the front ripped out the treads and caught one big or two small mechs who greyed out on the spot. The main hall outside the little medbay room is carpeted with broken glass, and emergency exits are popped open all along the sides. Ricochet crawls out a side, checks the number, and keeps his head down and his lights low with the scream of Seeker engines above. 

He’s on a linked convoy transit going along the side of a mountain, in and out — mostly in along here — of tunnels and over scaffolding, looks more appropriated commercial than fresh military construction. Horizon’s hard to make out through the dust, but the jagged silhouettes off to the west are probably the ruins of Cattax, putting them pretty fragging deep in locally sovereign — contested, for Cybertronians — territory. There’s smoke and gunfire north, dogfighting in the air, Ricochet can’t make much of the battle from here. 

Ricochet picks the polymer caps off the tips of his claws and climbs on to the side of the train, moving quick, mindful of how unsteady the whole thing is. He hops to the next car and checks the number — frag, not numbered consecutively, fine, he’s wherever the frag he is along the train.

Alright, he’s got mobility, there’s a battlefield up ahead, and ‘Cons probably north and lee — Prowl might’ve been lying, but either way, does he want to run into ‘Cons mid-skirmish? Good way to get dead. 

No, what he needs is a way to get a signal out. Car 3, was it? Probably towards the explosions, what with Prowl opting to climb for signal instead. Ricochet sneaks along the outside of the train, dodging and scurrying away at the sounds of anything that might spot or shoot or bomb him.

As he goes, he composes a field report for Soundwave. 

He’s got an old line to Sounders, should be able to get a few more uses out of it before he gets shut out or tracked down, and if he flags it with Meister’s keys it should get read pretty much as quick as he can get it delivered. 

Car 3 turns out to be on a wider section of the rail passage, wide enough there was a firefight here — mostly energon spatters to show for it, a couple grey frames with signs of medical attention that didn’t work out. Ricochet keeps his blaster at ready, but there’s no one alive to hassle him as he ducks in and roots around for — score, barely any rooting around at all, there’s a big transceiver with all its important parts where they should be. Easy to pull the dead body off the console and set it to soft restart, and by the time he’s looted nearby boxes for the hardware he needs, the transceiver is making happy beeping connection noises. 

He’s good — good to send a report to Soundwave and — win the war. That’s — he could do that. Fragging, he specifically — this is — it’s the right thing to do for his fragging _cause._ Ain’t like the ‘Bots are gonna last much longer anyway. The ‘Cons don’t have Fornax, but GHX-9 is a hub world, wouldn’t take long to reinforce, meet the fragging desperation pivot the ‘Bots are running here with irresistible speed and force. They’ll move in fast, kill Prowl and Hound and Blaster and Ratchet and Ironhide and Smokescreen and every ‘Bot and every goraaxian on GHX-9 and in the system until there’s no one left and it’s all over. It wouldn’t take long. The signal flickers — Ricochet catches a tipping antenna and sets it back in place.

It wouldn’t take long, and won’t take much lead time. The time between sharing the info and GHX-9 getting _firey_ will be real short, and meanwhile — there are a lot of people on GHX-9, and some of them — more of them could survive. There’s a smuggling depot — nearby actually, a couple megakils from here and if he’s got his timeline straight they’re moving refugees right now and they can clear off this rock before it becomes the newest front line if someone just warns them. He looks up his contacts for the depot and calls in a code yellow, tells Sideswipe to start evac.

Once that’s out, he switches to Meister’s credentials and pulls the last details he needs for a passable Ops writeup. Meister’s online accounts ain’t been security checked in vorns, there’s nowhere safe enough to stash the data to send out on a delay so he’s gotta hand-send it after the depo’s had a head start. There are empty data slugs premarked for confidential Autobot information in a box and he grabs one, reformats over the default encryption, dumps his report for Soundwave, and stashes it under his plating. 

Ricochet runs through the latest roster for ‘Cons in the area and keeps a click out for anyone too slow to shoot him on sight as he climbs back out of the car. He can hand it to — who’s in the area? East of Cattax, so... Visrax commanding, Bombshell in the field as point for intel? Visrax is smart and true purple, if he gets the slug it’d get to Soundwave even if Ricochet doesn’t manage to make it to a console again.

Back on the battlefield, a few ‘Bots jog by, going the way Ricochet came. Ricochet ducks up onto the top of the train car, sticks to it low, and climbs the other way. Pairs and singles of Autobots stagger off in the same direction — damaged, scuffed, dragging each other, gotta be running a retreat. Ricochet cuts in and out of the convoy cars, going the other way and dodging attention. Crashing headfirst into a strike team would be bad, he wants to keep sneaky and ease into Bombshell’s team from the side if he can.

“Marshall?”

There’s no good answer to that, so Ricochet swings up from where he’s climbing along the side of the train to get a little more speed running on the top. A distant detonation shakes the train enough to throw his balance a moment.

“Marshall!” It’s the yellow mini from movie night. He’s in car mode, swerving over rubble alongside the train until he gets ahead and springs up to root mode to sign for Ricochet to tune in to team comms. 

Ricochet pretends he doesn’t see it.

The mini says something that gets lost in the sound of Seeker strafing ahead. Then he transforms, accelerates hard at a big bit of partially collapsed tunnel, fragging ramps off the wall to go flying towards the top of the train, and transforms again midair to catch himself on the edge and scramble up in front of Ricochet.

“Whew!” he says. “Marshall! Are your comms down? We need to clear out of here!”

Ricochet steps to the side, keeps his blaster ready without being obvious. “It’s fine, I gotta get over there.”

The mini shakes his head. “No, no, we need to run, there’s delayed det charges set up on this whole stretch!”

Well, _frag,_ his mistake there, yeah. “Thanks, Yellow.” Ricochet 180s and sprints the way the ‘Bots are hopefully getting directed to safety.

Yellow switches to alt and drives alongside, taking the broken train top like it’s a paved road — he’s a _pit_ of a driver, good for him — he’s not going near as fast as he could and should. “Marshall, comms! Can you hear the coordination?”

“Yeah, just missed the call, go ahead!” Ricochet shrugs and leaps down to a bit of scaffolding before he gets to a part of the wreck that’s too on fire to run over.

Yellow skids down alongside, transforming again as he slides. “Stay with me Marshall,” he says, as if Marshall’s the one with a working alt mode here. 

Ricochet laughs and claws his way up a steel girder bent across the path. “I’m fine, you gotta—”

Flash like seeing a star — he reflexively magnetizes, grabs the mini, spins them both so the rubble’s kinda between them and the — hardly matters, explosion shock hits, hits the wall first, obliterates it, and brings a deluge of rock and twisted metal over them both.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ch contains: robogore
> 
> Unrelated, this chapter really wanted to be about Bumblee, that name is _fighting me._ I have a similar problem with Red Alter. At least I’ve gotten used to Richocet.

_Aw flip._ There were so many things Bumblebee still wanted to do before he died!

Not that he’s dead yet! It’s dark, but he hurts way too much to be dead, and something is throwing sparks nearby, lighting the space in weak little flickers. Bumblebee tries to turn towards the sparks to get a better look, but, aah, first off, moving hurts _so much_ and second, the sparking thing moves too because it’s him. He’s sparking, and the sparks are lighting up the space enough that he can see energon coming out of him pretty fast and that can’t be a good combination.

Also the big rock next to him is slipping and pushing him into the steel beam that um, is skewered through him. Bumblebee braces against the rock to get himself off the beam, and hey, he can kinda move, so that’s something!

Bumblebee squeezes himself into a corner that isn’t getting crushed by falling rock yet and feels for where his energon is flowing from, tries to get some pressure on severed lines, tries to remember his first aid. He’s supposed to, to, this is a lot of damage and it _hurts,_ and he’s in a collapsing pile of rubble. There are a bunch of rocks on him, he thinks. And part of a train.

“Yellow! You in there?” And Marshall! Yeah, he’d thought Marshall grabbed him. 

“C'mon, don't leave me hanging.” He’s a little muffled, accompanied by a scrabbling noise. Oh, digging!

Bumblebee opens his mouth to call out and manages to whisper soft static, spew a bunch of energon, and realize that the section of his neck that feels like it’s crushed is probably crushed. His comms are next to his vocals and the bit of girder that went through him looks like it got both. Well, Marshall’s comms are down anyway. Bumblebee forces his vocalizer to engage and shrieks a whistle. It cuts off with a gurgle and he switches to clicking frantically. Is it loud enough?

“Good slag, Yellow, keep talking to me!” Bumblebee keeps clicking, even though it means he can’t listen for the digging.

Rock shifts above him and the sky cracks in.

A blue visor appears, spiderwebbed with fractures that are lit up purplish. Bumblebee reaches up to try to help move rocks but he’s kinda pinned and kinda weak from damage.

“Ey, there you are!” Marshall ducks under a rock and digs towards Bumblebee one-armed. He’s grey with dust and his left arm is dangling by a wire at the elbow. Bumblebee blinks in the light, and clicks with relief, which sounds subtly different from clicking for help like he was doing before.

The tipping gets suddenly much, much worse and Marshall shoves a rock away awkwardly, pounces forward and grabs Bumblebee with his good arm as a slagged-together chunk of rock and steel above them shifts and tumbles down the steep drop carved out under them. Marshall’s clinging somehow onto a crushed section of train half-embedded in slippery cliffside, and as the rock chunk falls clear, the whole section wobbles with the shift in weight, _teeters_ and slides down the mountain. 

Bumblebee reflexively grabs for something steady and that’s Marshall, who’s big enough to pin him down and ignore his grabbing. “Keep talking to me, c’mon. Any chance you know binary?” he asks, watching the landslide settling around them, unconcerned.

Their crushed metal platform shudders to an unsteady stop. Bumblebee doesn’t know binary. He whistles sadly.

Marshall grins at him. “Whistles are good, too! Little ones, don’t blow out your intake. Just keep talking and don’t move, okay? You’re doing great, lookit you, no vocals, no problem.” 

They’re precariously balanced on a torn bit of train wall in a landslide. One of Bumblebee’s legs is dangling over an edge, and he’s not at the right angle to see well, but there’s _wind_ and he’s pretty sure he’s a couple inches from a dropoff. 

“You got a medkit? Whistle me one for no, two for on you, three for subspace.” Marshall crawls up a bent bit of wall to get a better vantage over Bumblebee.

Bumblebee whistles three times. 

“Ah.” Marshall sweeps him over physically, crouching in to check over limbs and plating, tapping him and clicking a few echo pulses. “If you can get that out, do it.” 

Bumblebee tries to access subspace, which usually feels like little bits shifting in him and then a tingle he can grab through, but one of the little bits shifting slips _wrong_ and sends a flare of sparks and a flash of pain. He tries again, more careful on the bit that slipped and, oh, maybe he should have let the sparks die down first, that’s a lot of sparks.

Marshall slaps down on Bumblebee’s chassis. “Nope, stop! We’ll try it again when you're less twisty, aight? Just hold still a klik, you’re still fine.” Marshall’s got a patchy section of mesh and medical plate over his own chest, and he picks bits off and starts sticking them into Bumblebee in sharp little jabs. “You got comms?” he asks. “Comm for help?”

Bumblebee whistles once for no. He’s got comms, but he can’t get them to send anything out. They’re making a steady whine at him. Is that supposed to happen?

“Think you can walk?” Marshall climbs back to give him some space and looks over Bumblebee appraisingly.

His legs are responding, yeah, yeah, he thinks he can walk. Bumblebee shoves himself up. He wobbles, and it hurts, but he almost makes it off his back before Marshall shoves him back down. 

“No, siddown, leaky, you’re leaving bits behind.” The force of Marshall pushing him sets their whole trainwreck perch shaking and Bumblebee is suddenly keenly aware that if he stumbles while trying to walk, he’ll probably fall over the edge.

Marshall vents a cycle and looks around them. It looks bad around them. Terrain unsteady, mostly settled, active risk of fuel explosions or damaged ordinance, safest out probably west. Bumblebee has pitons in subspace, and he could get them out of here with his optics off if he could, if he just felt better. “Pause the clicks and hold still for me?” Marshall asks gently. He seems to steel himself. 

A little glint of purple shows from under the meshes on Marshall as he leans over and sticks his claws into Bumblebee’s neck.

His vocalizer crunches — that part isn’t meant to _move,_ and Bumblebee shrieks. He cuts himself off in surprise at the noise.

Marshall draws back and hovers, claws retracted, hands and face flecked with Bumblebee’s energon. “Mech, mech. Yellow. Tell me I didn't just kill you,” he says.

“You didn't just kill me,” he gasps. “And my name is Bumblebee.” He’d been so proud of himself, not telling Marshall that before, because there’s definitely something weird about Marshall, but that doesn’t feel important now.

“Lookit that, we got words!” Marshall grins at him proudly. “Aight Bumblebee, read me some diagnostics? What’s hurting?”

Diag — yeah! Bumblebee tries to remember how to pull his diagnostics. He’s, um, he can. Oh scrap that’s a lot of words he doesn’t know. “I think my neck mostly? And my... asck inter...gumetallic, ah, pit, pit, sorry, I don’t know what I’m looking for.” He’s not panicking, he keeps looking, but he hurts so much, and he’s never been awake while this damaged before.

“Hey, hey, ain’t no sorry about it, you’re doing great.” Marshall’s bent close over him, grabbing at cables in his neck and the bit by his hood that has a hole in it now. “I’m going to move you to check your other side. Can you look for the phrase ‘spark-system dynamics,’ and read me everything underneath it?” Marshall shoves him, and everything screams static. 

Bumblebee blinks back the pain and hunts through his diagnostics. He’s been hurt before, he knows how to do this. In theory. Spark-system dynamics only come up when someone’s really really hurt, he knows that. “I — yes, there it is!” Bumblebee reads him the numbers, stumbling over half-familiar acronyms and guessing at abbreviations.

Marshall freezes, a bent piece of Bumblebee’s internals pinched between his claws.

Hey, so, that is _not_ a reaction Bumblebee likes. “Is that right?” 

Marshall twists off the burr he was holding and laughs. “Yes, no, great job, you’re perfect, also you were kindled and no one’s remapped your summary diagnostic readouts.” Bumblebee’s usually a little nervous when someone learns he was kindled, but wow, more things that seem less important now. “Your SMI is 130 on a scale of green to black. Okay, okay, that’s fine, but we need that first aid kit out of your subspace now. Gimme a nano, and try to access your kit instead of screaming.”

Before Bumblebee can ask what that means, Marshall sticks his hand into the gap where his side is all twisted up and _squeezes_ something. Bumblebee chokes back his scream and engages his subspace. It’s connecting right, he can feel that, he can reach for his first aid kit — the sparking behind him flares magnesium-bright and the part Marshall’s got _pops_ and Bumblebee screams after all. 

Marshall flinches back with a hissed swear, shaking out his lightly smoking hand and hopping over Bumblebee to shift the weight as their platform starts to teeter again. “Fr—fine. Aight. That’s a short in the amp-draw integration. Any chance you know how to reroute your subspace draw so it can piggyback off a donor?”

He saw some controls like that, maybe? That is not a common knowledge trick. If he lives, Bumblebee is going to pester Marshall into teaching him _everything._ “I can try?” 

Marshall grins at him. “Yeah, bet we could figure it out. But I gotta call it. We need your vitals, and we need that kit. So, option one, I can keep talking you through steps, we take our time. Or, two, I can go scavenging for a kit, come back, and do my best ‘till a doctor gets here. Or, three, I can spoof a medical hardline on ya, do that override, and watch your numbers while I poke ‘round your guts.”

Bumblebee’s pretty sure it’s not just the feeling of imminent shutdown that makes that sound kinda dumb. “That last option is obviously the best, right?” he says. “Why don’t you want to hardline?”

Marshall drums a finger over an interface port on his broken arm. “Yeah,” he says. “Full disclosure I'm on all kinds of probation right now and I really ain’t supposed to hardline anyone.”

“Oh,” Bumblebee says. Whaaaat is his deal? Bumblebee is so going to circle back on this when he’s not dying. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Marshall glances around the area and vents heavily. He shrugs, half-smiles at Bumblebee, and draws out a cord. “Seriously, Bug, take it to your fragging grave, or it’ll take you to yours.”

“I can keep a secret,” Bumblebee mutters, drawing back his own port covers. Wait a klik, was that a threat? Oh, or maybe a warning. Marshall’s got this _bizarre_ mix of easy confidence and, like, shell-shocked disorientation going on. Bumblebee’s pretty sure he’s got some issues, and he’s not sure if it’s trauma, or something about the bits of purple peeking out, or if it’s just how he is.

Marshall connects, and, oh, so that’s what he meant by spoofing a medical hardline. It’s not a proper medical connection, it’s weird, pinging so it feels like it’s routing a medical port even though Bumblebee can _see_ it isn’t. You could probably get some really strange access on someone through this, which he supposes was the point.

Bumblebee finds his medical access permissions and switches them to let Marshall in.

Marshall grimaces. “Woah there Bee, stranger danger,” he says, shaking his head slightly. Marshall snicks a port open and deftly reciprocates the connection and, wow he’s got really intense firewalls.

Bumblebee sends a clumsy handshake towards the fortress around Marshall. This is a weird interface, but manners are manners.

Marshall accepts the handshake and the connection reshapes to offer Bumblebee a section to read. _Bee,_ Marshall says. _This is what a reasonable emergency medical permissions config looks like. Copy it._ He doesn’t wait for Bumblebee to do that, though. He shifts his focus back to Bumblebee, flicking into his medical access.

“Huh,” Marshall says at Bumblebee’s diagnostics. “Well, this was the right choice.” He doesn’t elaborate. He does yank a strand of something out of his own chassis and twist it on to something in Bumblebee.

Bumblebee double-checks the permissions he apparently should have used. Apparently, it’s reasonable to assume an emergency medical connection can and will try to just, _destroy your mind_ and to set really aggressive defenses against that. Bumblebee maps the configuration onto his systems, because it’s a really good configuration, and because it’s something to do other than watch energon continue to pour out of his frame.

 _Watch close a klik for that reroute,_ Marshall says, giving Bumblebee almost no time to start watching before he runs a series of commands and quick physical tweaks that has Bumblebee’s subspace engaging on its own. “This is going to hurt, but it won’t damage anything,” he says, and he _wasn’t lying_ , everything _prickles_ that is the _weirdest_ pain, but _there’s_ his medkit! Bumblebee grabs the medkit from subspace with a triumphant whistle.

Marshall laughs and bursts him approval over the connection as he pops the medkit open and rips through it for supplies. He immediately sets a transfusion line between them, moving quicker than Bumblebee can honestly follow. Bumblebee grabs on to whatever he’s handed when asked to _hold this_ or _pull on this_ and watches Marshall clamp, gel, and wrap at speed. He moves with urgency, and keeps it up long enough that Bumblebee runs out of distractions and come up with the conclusion that he was _really bad off._

Eventually, Marshall pauses, poised over Bumblebee with a clamp ready. _Right,_ he says. He’s got a line in his mouth. _Now. See your SsDV readout?_ He highlights a section of Bumblebee’s internal diagnostics. _I’m watching your CT, because you had a 2nd degree internal fry. It was kickin’ around over 50, and we’re gonna watch it until it settles under 20._ Marshall, um, seems to have remapped his summary diagnostics. Well, they’re easier to read.

Marshall slowly sits back and spits out the extra parts he was holding in his mouth. He’s fidgeting a little off overclock and probably injury. He grins at Bumblebee when he looks over. “Feelin’ better?”

“Yeah.” Bumblebee reaches for the transfusion hookup. “You, on the other hand, look like you kinda need some of this to stay in you.”

Marshall bats him away from the connection. “Naw, you’re teensy. Pit, let’s do another one. You see your coolant levels there? Way too low, damn shortsighted of you to spill it everywhere.” Marshall highlights more diagnostics as he sets up another hookup. _You want that at 60 at least, then I’ll let you go, ‘kay?_

Bumblebee watches Marshall sort through his medical diagnostics, humming slightly. _Lookin’ good, Bee. Hey, you might actually live!_

Bumblebee laughs even though it isn’t funny. Then he notices Marshall’s paused looking at something. _What’s up?_ he asks.

 _Huh,_ Marshall says. _Hey did you know you have an aux comm system?_

“What’s that mea—aaa!” Bumblebee’s internal comm crackles and something at the edge of his comm suite _wriggles_ warmly and clicks. His comms are definitely in shards, but a new channel pings in, a string of nonsense music symbols.

::Means it’s hard to shut you up,:: Marshall says, grinning broadly at Bumblebee. 

::Marshall?:: Yeah, that’s comms! That's Marshall direct lined to his comms. Bumblebee follows Marshall’s work, and, huh, apparently he’s had backup comms for who knows how long and they’re barely damaged at all. Bumblebee copies the Autobot channel code over and drops an SOS pin.

::Hold on a — welp, nevermind. Okay, okay.::

“Hm? What’s wrong?” Bumblebee asks. A rescue team pings backs a copy on his SOS, with a very nearby location and a field assessment of orange. Bumblebee sits up and squints at where they’ll be. With Marshall’s patches, he thinks he’s probably in good enough repair to climb up to meet them. “Hey, Marshall, we got rescue incoming! Apparently the area’s clear.”

“Yep,” Marshall says, as he briskly evicts Bumblebee from his processor and cuts their connection. He unjacks their hardline, which kind of pulls everything into a mess because they’ve got a bunch of wires and tubes on top of that catch and tangle.

“Bumblebee!” Brawn calls from up above. 

Bumblebee waves, blinks lights, and tries to get up. Marshall hisses to himself and disconnects lines between the two of them as quickly as he can working one-handed.

“Is that — Ricochet? What’re you doing?” Hound’s here too.

“Of course it’s fragging Hound,” Marshall says. He falters in his frenzied take-apart, and twitches for the processor interface cord again. He swears, pulls a slug from under his plating and slots it into a wrist port for read/write, and goes back to tying off Bumblebee’s lines like it’s a race. 

Bumblebee tries to help untie them. Marshall... maybe wants to run for it, and Bumblebee probably should have realized that before calling for help. He’s sorry.

“Bee, you know Salute to Prima? Of course you do, hum a bar for me?” 

Sure, okay. He whistles it. 

“Bee! You okay down there?” Hound calls. He’s picking his way down, he’ll be here in less than a minute.

“Yeah, we’re fine! Rocks are loose, take it slow!” Ow, his vocalizer.

“Perfect, there, that’s your encryption, you saw that sense log go by? Feed that in as the iam-key on that config you copied off me and pass it to the slug like it’s me, got it?” Marshall drops the last of their connections, plucks the slug from his arm, and presses it into Bumblebee’s hand.

“To read the slug? Why?” He takes the slug. It’s marked as confidential, and who knows what was on it before Marshall overwrote it.

“Bee, you’re fragging contaminated.” Marshall looks more worried than he had when Bumblebee was clicking in pain. He snatches up the clamps and patches left lying around and puts them in Bumblebee’s other hand. “If you spring leaks, ignore ‘em first. Drive, get at least a kil before you stop and patch,” he says. "Stay alive."

Then he shoves Bumblebee off their platform, over the edge of the cliff.


	15. Chapter 15

They fall back to New Horizon base, which was last occupied while Cattax was getting glassed and has maybe half of its walls intact.

A sixth of the train is confirmed dead and another quarter is unaccounted with survivors still trickling in. Wireprong’s dead, Mirage has missed two check-ins, Blaster’s trying to get contact with Optimus, Prowl’s trying to redirect three companies on a 2-bytte connection, Red Alert’s trying to secure a perimeter while dragging a medical drip, and Smokescreen is trying, generally, overall, to keep people from dying pointlessly from bad decisions in the next few joor. Days, in ambitious moments. That’s the dream.

Smokescreen expects maybe a third of the missing to turn up alive, but he’s handing search and rescue off to Hound because Hound made the mistake of being reliable near someone with delegation power, and meanwhile apparently fragging nobody’s been taking lead on encamp logistics and Smokescreen’s throwing gear at mechs and mechs at triage and trying to get a salvage inventory and being told by medical that they’re critically low on some chemical.

Trailbreaker gets a good system going for salvage and minesweeping so Smokescreen puts him in charge of that and ends up hauling some mineral oil to the ‘medbay’ Ratchet’s claimed out of a few usable pieces of building. Smokescreen flags down a harried orderly. “Hey, what’s this about low coolant supplies? How low is—”

“Smokescreen!” _Fragging_ Red Alert is in the medbay and even fragging odds he got dragged in after hurting himself doing something unnecessary. He’s sparking, dragging his drip, and he’s turned to yell at Smokescreen but he’s also clinging after Ratchet, waving a datapad at the doctor. “He’s got _magnets,_ we can’t keep him here!” he says to Smokescreen.

Frelling _what?_

Ratchet spots Smokescreen, zeroes in on to the drum of oil he’s got, and shoves his way over. “Smokescreen,” he says, popping open the drum and sticking an indicator in. “What are we doing with Ricochet?”

Oh for — “It’s not my fragging call,” Smokescreen snaps. He stops, shakes his head, and takes a breath. “Sorry. I know.” He’s not supposed to make the call, but it is what it is. “I thought he was cooperating as a prisoner. Stabilize and stash, right?”

Ratchet sticks some tubes onto the oil jug and hands it off to the orderly with a string of commands. He scowls at Smokescreen. “Cooperating? Ehh. He let Hound cuff and move him, and didn’t break out of his restraints until we got him in a secure room.”

“A _locked_ room,” Red Alert says. “If it’s mag-locked, it’s not _secure_ at all!” He brandishes his datapad at Smokescreen, showing split feeds. One is old, a video from the train of Ricochet reaching out and, to all appearances, _willing_ a set of force bars to vanish. One is marked live, and shows Ricochet in a med berth in a cell that matches the style of the rooms in the medbay. Red Alert has highlighted video details and monitoring callouts to note that Ricochet has busted his bonds and is only pretending to be restrained. “He’s got internal magnetics, that’s how he’s been getting through the iso locks, he’s _dangerous!”_

He’s injured. One of his arms is almost off, and he’s dented and scratched and dripping a little pool of energon onto the floor. “Is the room mag-locked?” Smokescreen asks.

“Nope. We do have to keep escape artists sometimes. He’s in full hostile security.” Ratchet gestures down a hallway without looking up from a set of datapads that he’s scribbling onto. Smokescreen recognizes high security medical cells. Horizon had some decent facilities. 

Ratchet finishes writing and looks consideringly at Smokescreen. Smokescreen doesn’t like that look.

“We’re keeping him alive. For now,” Smokescreen says. He reaches for Ratchet’s datapads. “Do you have an inv and req list there for me?”

“Good.” Ratchet nods and holds up one of the datapads, but also turns and walks away, forcing Smokescreen to follow. “Red, medical order, _sit the frag down,”_ he calls, pushing Red Alert at a makeshift berth. “Smokescreen, help me with this. And is there more of that oil?”

Smokescreen jogs to catch up and snag the datapad. “Maybe, probably not. How low are we?” 

Ratchet comes to a stop in front of a high security medical cell and triggers the entrance. 

“What,” Smokescreen says. Ratchet grabs him with his freak medic strength before Smokescreen can dodge away.

“Security protocol,” Ratchet says blandly. “I need backup.” He sends Smokescreen a frequency and a code, an inhibitor trigger. ::That’ll put him down for about a breem. Safety’s built in, err on over-pinging it.::

Smokescreen groans, watching Ricochet through the one-way field as the door closes behind them. Ricochet is half-curled up on the berth, overall body language too calm to be genuine, little twitches betraying high nerves. ::He’s going to attack you,:: Smokescreen warns. Smokescreen’s seen his specs, Ricochet’s more than half sketchy mod by mass.

::I know how to handle a fragging patient.:: Ratchet shrugs and disables the field. 

Smokescreen spins up his internal weapons. Just in case.

Ricochet turns towards them groggily as they come in. Faking it. He waits until Ratchet steps into reach before exploding into motion, lunging towards him with claws out and fangs bared. 

Ratchet steps back and Ricochet jerks and misbalances mid-lunge, trips awkwardly with a burst of EM and a snap of systems inhibitor that Smokescreen can feel faintly on his wings. Ratchet swoops to redirect Ricochet sideways against the berth and wall before he can crash uncontrolled to the floor, and Ricochet _screeches_ and twists himself away, scrabbles away from Ratchet still teetering and uncoordinated under heavy inhibition. ”Back _off,_ you fragging—” 

Ricochet stumbles back into a corner, hissing a steady stream of invective, claws out, armor bristled, cracked visor flared bright and tracking frenetically between Ratchet and Smokescreen. “—fascist dronefraggers I’ll _take you apart_ with your own—” The intensity of it is unnerving, but the threat is undercut by the dangling arm and clumsy movement. Smokescreen’s seen his specs, Ricochet was held together largely by hot glue and positive thinking before Ratchet stuffed him with baffles.

Ratchet backs off, hands spread. “Easy Ricochet. I’m here to fix you, that’s all.” His voice is gentle, more gentle than Ratchet _goes._

The visor flicks over to Smokescreen. 

“He’s here to officially approve it,” Ratchet says, not moving, not looking fully away from Ricochet. 

Smokescreen tries very hard not to look sulky. He opens up the I&R datapad from Ratchet. Frag, they’re dangerously low on coolant. Mechs will die, painfully, without restock. “Smokescreen of Praxus, 432:68-ish Iacon time, issuing formal stay of judgement pending medical treatment for Ricochet of Tyger Pax,” he calls, loud enough for the mics. “Let the fragging doctor treat you before you drip to death, Ricochet.”

Ricochet looks between them. His panicked bristling slowly eases down. He gets control of that bright cornered edge and manages to look a little less dangerous. “You ain’t here to kill me?”

“We’d just shoot you,” Smokescreen points out. “And we wouldn’t make Ratchet watch.” 

Ratchet doesn’t like that, but Ricochet does. He relaxes, nods a little, and lets Ratchet in to scan him.

“No one’s killing you at least until I’m done fixing you,” Ratchet grumbles, glaring back at Smokescreen as he sets traction on Ricochet’s compound damage.

::Optics on the crazy ‘Con, Ratch,:: Smokescreen says, pulling out a datapad of salvage inventory to cross check for things that can be rigged into extra coolant. Smokescreen doesn’t listen to Ratchet’s quiet conversation with Ricochet as he repairs him. He keeps a thread on watching for Ratchet getting assaulted and a thread on figuring out how to sort and supply hundreds of mechs in a slagged base megahics out from reinforcements.

Ratchet helps Ricochet back up to the berth, careful of injuries, and hooks him properly into monitors and medical ancillaries. Ricochet lets him. He cycles a vent and sweeps an assessing look over Ratchet. “You gonna take my magnets?” Ricochet asks, carefully calm, like it’s an unpleasant possibility and not medical _desecration._

Smokescreen winces a little, even though he’s not listening. Ratchet doesn’t, but that’s because he’s a shouter, not a wincer. There’s a nano pause.

“Those are deep wired.” Ratchet’s not shouting, just sounds as angry as if he were. “I’m not going to remove them.”

Ricochet shudders very, very slightly, and curls in. Smokescreen watches him over the edge of the datapad, which dims after a few kliks without input. 

“Could,” Ricochet says, quietly. “Couldya supervise?” He asks Ratchet.

Smokescreen winces more. Ricochet’s assumed the magnets are going, he’s just pleading for the doctor he kinda trusts. Yes, yes, Ricochet’s obviously got some seriously fragged up trauma-related worldviews, Smokescreen’s _noticed,_ it’s not _subtle._

Ratchet takes a klik to follow Ricochet’s thought, because he’s a good person. Then he freezes. 

“I misspoke,” Ratchet says, voice forced steady. “Removing them is medically inadvisable and I will say as much. As the most qualified one to perform such a delicate” — read: fragged up — “operation, I'll do it myself if it happens.” He keeps solemn optic contact with Ricochet as he says it. Then he shoots a dirty look at Smokescreen, who isn’t even _in charge_ of, of anything here.

Ricochet’s hard to read as anyone Smokescreen’s ever met, but maybe softened by stress and injury, that’s clearly relief in the slump of weight, gratitude in the asymmetrical smile. “Thanks, doc.”

Smokescreen clicks off his datapad and looks at the floor in exasperation even though they’re not on Cybertron and Primus isn’t there to be glared at. “No one’s going to take your frelling magnets, Ricochet,” he snaps. “I can make that call, I’m making that call.” Honestly, if it comes to it, it just means he’ll help Optimus with phrasing to placate Prowl and Red. “I’m —”

Ricochet is watching him without any expression at all. Coping, or lying, or whatever. He can tell Smokescreen is slagged at him, and doesn’t understand the mercy, because, again, _trauma._ Yeah, it’s sparkbreaking, and Smokescreen had _really_ hoped it wasn’t going to externalize in unacceptable behaviors like _pushing Bumblebee off a cliff._

“I’m off your case,” Smokescreen says, finally looking directly at Ricochet. “You obviously don’t like me, but that’s old news, I’m double off your case now because I’m recused, because Bee happens to be a friend of mine, and you just hurt him very badly.”

Ricochet’s expression flickers and Smokescreen hates that fragging visor for a second. Comprehension, apprehension, and something _thoughtful,_ there.

“How good a friend?” Ricochet asks, of all frelling things.

“Why’s that matter?” Smokescreen asks, wary.

Ricochet's attention fixes on Smokescreen, watching _closely._ “Is he going to... be okay?”

Ah, _right._ It wouldn’t be a proper conversation with Ricochet if Smokescreen had any idea what the _frag_ they’re really talking about. Smokescreen calls it quits. He exvents heavily, blanks his expression, and flips through salvage inventory lists until Ratchet’s done.

Ratchet gets Ricochet better than stable — usually he’d leave minor repairs for later, but Ricochet’s a fragging pain to approach — and leaves some vitals monitoring before marking him checked and cleared. 

Once they’re outside the cell, Smokescreen dips off to go check on Bee in the recovery rooms.

Ratchet falls in step with him. “He is terrified that we’re going to mutilate him,” Ratchet says, aiming for neutral and not at all pulling it off.

“Yep, he sure is,” Smokescreen says, checking room numbers against intake records. Bumblebee, Bumblebee, there’s Bee.

Ratchet steps in front of him, leaning close. It’s aimed at minimizing eavesdropping rather than being imposing, but there’s no way Ratchet misses that side effect. “It’s damaging our rapport and I’m going to start giving protective guarantees,” he says.

Smokescreen sighs and gives Ratchet a gesture of defeat. “Honestly, Ratch, do what you want. Prowl’s in charge of him and Prowl’s busy. If you want to adopt him and promise nothing’s going to happen, that’ll be your fight.” He assesses. “Three to one that you’ll have to physically fight Red Alert off over it at some point.” Smokescreen flashes Ratchet a weak smile for weak humor, and Ratchet lets him duck past the screen and to Bumblebee’s berthside.

“Hey Bee!” Smokescreen fixes his smile on a little better before Bee looks up. “How’re you doing?”

Bee stutters a little with articulation glitch as he looks up, and fails to fully suppress a wince as the motion pulls at injury. The fall damage looks horrifying, on top of crush injuries that left him coated in energon. There’s a big splash of it around his vocalizer, which someone barely avoided permanently damaging with a messy field relocation. That’s connected by frayed strands and in danger of melting down if it gets poked hard. Bee’s tougher than he looks, though. He skimmed down the cliff and hit rock with mercifully little damage overall, then _drove_ to find a rescue team.

Bee beeps something surprisingly rude in binary. Smokescreen’s going to have to check who’s teaching him. “I’m really, really, really, for real fine,” Bee says, only a little hoarse. “Marshall patched up the dangerous stuff, and I know how to surf a cliff safely. Even Ratchet said I’m fine.”

“Yeah.” Smokescreen hesitates. “Ratchet cleared you for health and sabotage, both, right?”

“He cleared me,” Bee says, putting clear effort into not sounding like a sparkling. Losing battle, Bee. “Why are you so worried?”

“He’s —” Smokescreen gestures vaguely. Frag, he hadn’t actually meant to go purely tactical on Bee, he’d just wanted to chat and reassure himself that Bee was okay, but now he’s got Ricochet and fragging ‘Con medical norms on his mind. “I’m not worried. Ratchet knows what he’s doing. You’re fine. Just… Marshall didn’t do anything weird, did he?”

“Sure he did. He’s a weird mech, and I’ve never had to have a weird mech save my life in the middle of a landslide, so it was all pretty new and exciting,” Bee says. He fidgets. “He told me he wasn’t supposed to hardline, I told him to do it anyway. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He — he fragged with your medical config,” Smokescreen reminds him. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

Bee glares, and beeps — that’s not a real swear, someone’s pranking him. “I almost died because my medical config was left unstandardized. I’m old enough to fight, I should have had my last updates ages ago.” 

Smokescreen falters. Bee was kindled, and before the world ended he would have gotten more time to not be an adult. But he’s older than plenty of the army. “Yeah. Sorry Bee.”

Bee nods and hums through his damaged vocalizer, which sounds like a whistle. He forgives oh so easily. “I liked him,” he says. “...I think he might have been stealing data before I ran into him, though. Is he a spy? What’s his real name?”

Smokescreen laughs. He looks at Bee, clever little often-underestimated Bee. “Eh, it’s complicated. Why’d he seem like a spy?”

“He showed me some neat spy tricks. It was pretty cool. He was nice.”

Smokescreen sighs. “You can’t just trust people because they show you neat spy tricks, Bee.” 

Bee beeps noncommittally. “I really like neat spy tricks. And he also saved my life.”

“Yeah,” Smokescreen says, raising a brow at Bumblebee. “And then he pushed you off a cliff.” 

“Yeah,” Bee says, unphased. “He’s not in trouble is he?” Bee sounds _genuinely_ concerned.

“Bee, he tried to kill you!” Smokescreen is _positive_ this isn’t something to shrug off.

Bee shrugs and fishes under his plating. “No,” he says. He digs out a data slug. “He was trying to help me.”

-

 _You just hurt him very badly,_ Smokescreen said. It could be a trick, but Ricochet doesn’t think it is.

_Frag,_ they got Bee. How? He _saw_ lil yellow skating down the cliff safe enough, and the info pack he’d given Bee should’ve been real clear on how to use the canyon to throw tracking, and Ricochet’d kept Hound occupied and everything. So much for that. Frag. 

Sometimes these things happened. Alright. Alright, they got Bee. Bee had a deserter data slug from Jazz — encrypted, good encryption, but _Prowl._ All in all, that had gone pretty slag. Worst likely case, Bee is dead, Jazz is fragged, and all the info in the slug is burned.

The maps and contacts in the slug are meant to be robust, not much he can do there. If he can, he’ll get word down the route, let them know he _fragged_ them and they gotta lie low. There — scrap, there are a lot of question marks between ‘locked in high security’ and ‘warning a smuggling route about a data leak,’ he’s wishing more than planning, here.

Good job he’d ignored the half-temptation to keep Meister’s report in the bundle and tell Bee to drop it en route. At least everything’s clean of Meister.

Bee might have a chance — if Smokescreen likes him enough, and if he has the pull to get Bee cleared. Ricochet didn’t do _slag_ to Bumblebee, but he can’t back that up without a full scan, and he _can’t_ do a full scan. He — he can’t. Sorry, Bee. He’s got slag to protect — a network of people with detailed notes on allegiances, abilities, favors owed in all kinds of directions. Safe houses and dark routes for defectors and pirates and smugglers. All that jazz.

Fragging — fine. Try to stay alive, try to keep his secrets. Same old song, nothing he ain’t prepared for. 

Ricochet paces, gets used to how everything feels with all the fixes and inhibitors Ratchet’s lined him with. When he tries to pick at baffles he gets dropped by that fragging inhibitor field and he’s not sure if it’s automatic tamper protection or if someone’s watching his feed and pinging the frequency. He cuts it out in case it’s the second thing, and puts his energy into pacing twice as much.

Fine, fine, he’s fragged. He’s been fragged. What’s he got? He’s all fixed up, he’s got his partitions ready. He force overrides his autonomics when they keep trying to stick on panic and despair, and he does some stretches and light exercise. 

When the field goes up to let someone into his cell, Ricochet ambles politely to the back — careful of the medical monitors pinned to his lines — and waves a little greeting. He keeps his claws out and his step light — he ain’t gonna win a fight with that slagging remote inhibition in play, but it makes him feel better and that matters too.

Prowl’s dropping by for a visit — and fragging Hound again, too.

Prowl’s dusty and a little dinged, rigid ‘cause that’s what he does instead of slump when he’s stressed. He’s extremely stressed. Little slagged-off, too, but mostly stressed. Like Smokescreen, but worse, and it ain’t like Smokey was calm. Hound's dustier and dinged worse, and inverse — little stressed, mostly slagged-off.

Ricochet’s got no game plan here, frag it. He grins and salutes. “Heya Hounddog, Prowler, what’s poppin’?”

Prowl narrows his optics slightly — fraggin’ death glares — at Ricochet. “You will not be able to transform or comm without skilled medical intervention and we are too far from Decepticon territory for you to _walk_ to safety. We have excellent trackers and excellent snipers here, all of whom are ready for you. If we lose track of you, we will leak intel indicating your defection. You do not have a viable exit route. Do _not_ cause trouble.”

At least Prowler doesn’t frag around. Ricochet drops his salute and nods. “Rad. Gotcha.” His smile feels stiff, but he keeps it on. He doesn’t have a viable exit route, but he ain’t so far from one as Prowl thinks.

They watch him, but Ricochet’s got nothing to say. He stretches the articulation in his repaired arm, careful of the fresh weld. Ratch does good work. He could probably keep a mech alive through some real heavy damage.

Prowl cycles a full vent. “This is difficult. You are not in a good position. Everything — your protected status was contingent on the fact that you hadn’t tried to kill any Autobots.”

“Ah.” He still hasn’t — well, not recently — but that’s how they’re gonna be talking about Bumblebee then, and okay, he’s aware it’s hilariously hypocritical of him, but there are lies and then there are _lies_ and Ricochet fragging hates _lies._ He flares and flexes his claws in spite of himself, a savage edge creeping into his grin. “We gonna be saying Bee died in the fall?”

Hound twitches a little before going full poker face. He wants to say something, but either he thinks it's a bad idea or someone's comming him to keep it down.

Prowl misses a beat. “Bumblebee has military grade armor,” he says slowly. “He did not die in the fall.”

Bee’s alive. Bee’s gonna be alive. A wipe and reset, then. Ricochet saw his processor, didn’t see any marks of personality backups, so it’ll be a fresh start. But a mech’s more than just memories. It’s — it ain’t murder, ain’t even the worst thing that coulda happened to Bee today. He might even stay a tough little sneak afterwards, if you believe in spark traits.

Ricochet nods and settles his plating, eases his expression. Not great, still good. If he’s lucky, Bee managed to ditch the slug before getting picked up. Is there a smart way he can ask after that?

Hound loses his battle to stay shut up. “You’re not even sorry at all, are you?”

There’s surprising anger in it, more of a zealous streak than Ricochet’d expected from easy-going, friendly Hound. And _frag that,_ no, he ain’t sorry at all, it turned out _slag_ but he’s always gonna try to get a mech out of danger if he can — which, sometimes, means he’s gotta duck his head down and lie and hope it wins him another chance. 

Ricochet cancels a slew of anger reactions and exvents through the uncomfortable chill it leaves in his internals. He bows his head and drops his plating — not too much, not overdoing it. Reasonably contrite. He betrayed their trust and tried to undermine them. “I am sorry,” he says. 

Visor’s fragging great for peeking. Hound’s frowning a little, and steals an odd glance back at the door. Prowl’s silent, looking thoughtfully at Ricochet. Oh, right, fragging lie detector, how’d he forget that slag?

“For what?” Prowl asks.

Ricochet feels like something’s curdling in him. He hates this slag, always has. He keeps steady, apologetic, fidgets with the monitor he’s tied to in order to hide the trouble he’s having keeping his claws in. I liked him and it wouldn’t’ve hurt anyone to just let him go, he swallows. “I did not believe he required containment, but it was not my call and I am sorry,” he says, dead fragging rote.

Hound swivels back, does a slag job at hiding confusion — distracted by something. Fragging what?

Prowl shakes his head slightly, and holds a hand up. “Why did you push Bumblebee off the cliff?”

Ah frag, he can’t do it after all. “Why?” His control on his autonomics slips a little, and Ricochet laughs, then checks up sideways, not quite up to looking at Prowl. “Because — truthfully, seein’ as I can’t lie to Prowler here —“

Hound ain’t even listening. What the frag is Hound listening to? He’s — there’s a faint rumble of noise outside the cell and Ricochet tunes up his audio for it. 

“—doing to him? — _delicate_ — fragging _justification_ —” Ratchet. Ratchet... yelling at Prowl so much he’s slipped to doing it out loud? For — Oh slag, his autonomic overrides.

Ricochet picks the most likely camera for a doctor’s monitoring feed. “Oh come off it Ratch, I’m obviously fine!” he snaps at it.

Prowl’s good wing dips slightly in surprise. Hound’s more obvious, outright cringes. “Fragging _bold,”_ he says.

The door opens — _blatant_ security violation. Ricochet bolts for it — and fragging wipes out as four mechs — Red Alert’s outside, Ratchet and Red arguing outside, makes sense — hit his inhibitor frequency at the same time and his motor control vanishes.

Ricochet hits the ground messy, manages a roll, and kicks himself up to a wobbling crouch as Ratchet barrels into the room looking — looking nothing at all like the carefully soothing professional from earlier.

“What the _frag_ are you doing?” Ratchet howls at Prowl. He gives Prowl no chance to reply, rounds on Ricochet. “And _you!_ _What_ was that? Wanna try that again?”

Ricochet groans, tries to get standing up, and fails. Whatever, who needs dignity, anyway. “Ahh. Sorry doc, that was rude of me. I’m just scared, don’t gotta make a thing of it.”

Ratchet crouches in front of Ricochet and grabs him at a monitor connection. “Frag rude, if you keep overriding your fear responses, you’re going to be _injured.”_

“Psh, I got hours in me still,” Ricochet mumbles towards a wall. Probably not, he feels pretty slag. “At least an hour.” 

Ratchet makes an unimpressed hum and tweaks a line that — oh frag, there’s a hardware part to that override? Frag, now he’s visibly fragging shaking, what the frag, why? 

“You’re going to glitch yourself to death, you know that? Why are you — why?”

“Yeah, I got a trained terror of authority and this is how I handle it,” he grumbles. “Or not. Fine, stop, I’m turning it off, okay? Fine.” He lets his autonomics tell him he’s scared and sad and it’s fragging unpleasant. Ricochet leans back and lifts his chin to stare down Prowl. He focuses on his vents, trying to find a scrap of calm. “I’ll do it the boring way.”

Hound shifts uncomfortably — yeah, Ricochet would too, it’s slaggin’ embarrassing. 

Prowl steps to the side so that Ratchet isn’t in their line of sight. “Why did you push Bumblebee off of the cliff?” he repeats.

Ricochet laughs — accidentally bumps Ratchet, who’s trying to check a weld. He feels a weird manic edge in his expression, feels himself slip off some edge of good sense as he meets Prowl’s stare. “Because,” he says. “Freedom is the right of all sentient beings.”

Prowl watches him unblinking, unflickering. “Understood,” he says. “What is containment?”

Ricochet loses track of the humor of the situation. His smile slips. “What?”

“What is containment?” Prowl repeats. “Humor me.”

He ain’t used to stumbling a conversation — but — what’s, if Prowl’s _tricking him_ — Ricochet sits up, ducks a hecimet away from Ratchet’s ministrations. “Containment,” he says, “is a set of policies to minimize the damage done by mnemo-contamination.”

Prowl’s mouth twitches slightly. “Without the euphemisms, please.”

“It’s when you reformat or kill mechs who mighta been hacked,” Ricochet says. And if Prowl straight wasn’t thinking it — well. No wonder Bombshell gets away with stupid slag.

Prowl nods, not surprised, but digesting. “You claim you didn’t reprogram Bumblebee.”

“I didn’t,” Ricochet says, trying to sound sincere and tripping on desperation. Does Prowl’s lie detection work both ways? Can the fragger figure out when he can _believe_ him? “Swear to Primus, Pit, and whatever else you want.”

“You could have, though,” Prowl says, with mild interest. Yeah, that’s the fragging point — frag, little bit of an unusual skill though and if they were assuming he couldn’t, _frag._

Ricochet rolls his optics — marginally less rude with the visor — and tries to relax his plating. Ratchet flicks him on the shoulder with a hum of warning. Ricochet shrugs him off. “Prepped programs, right setup, anyone could do it,” he says. “Multitasking in a fragging battlefield with half your systems offline, no one could do it.”

Prowl’s watching him with so little reaction that Ricochet’d almost think he’s not listening, but that obviously ain’t been the case so far.

“Well. Maybe Soundwave,” Ricochet says. Maybe Ricochet, actually, but probably not. He’s good, but he’s not _practiced_ in reprogramming. “I ain't Soundwave.” 

“99.7%” Prowl agrees absently. 

Ricochet blinks. Ratchet swaps a glance with Hound.

“I ain’t Soundwave!”

Prowl refocuses on him. “99.6%,” he says.

He’s — that’s —

Prowl nods slightly. “I apologize,” he says. “I believe we are miscommunicating.”

Okay it’s probably his mucked up autonomics as much as it is Prowler bein’ _hilarious,_ but Ricochet fragging loses it there. He _cackles_ and he can’t stop, laughs hard enough that Ratchet braces him with a hand to keep him immobile for whatever he’s checking.

“A moment,” Prowl says, and Ricochet’s still laughing too hard to try anything when he opens the door and steps out.

-

Prowl steps out for his own sake as much as Ricochet’s. Ricochet will likely (89%) be more able to calm down without Prowl present, and Prowl, meanwhile, will try to not crash.

Ricochet makes no sense. Everything about him is off, sideways, generating contradictory implications. His behavior in, during, from the moment they met, everything he has ever done is _strange_ — his skills, his personality, his reactions to Autobots and to Optimus and to Bumblebee — the partitions in his processor, the files with his name, the slug of escape routes he gave Bumblebee — signed by an Autobot agent(? 57%) — it’s all (16/23:{4%^}) wrong, and Prowl is going to crash (92%). Unless he stops. 

Prowl steps into an unused closet, locks the door, informs Red Alert that he is fine, and stops. There never seems to be time to step back and think carefully, but he needs to do it anyway. Prowl shuts out the chaos of the world and systematically resets everything he knows about Ricochet. Recollects. Reconsiders.

That is, after all, how he thinks best. A little space from the soft confusions of direct interaction, constant response and reaction, and he finds a new shape. Maybe. 77%. He comms Internal Affairs. ::Can you check a record for me?::

::Shoot,:: Smokescreen says. 

::Before and during the riots and collapse at Garrus-3, an inside source passed on substantial evidence and analysis on what was happening.:: And probably (81%) sabotaged the facility before a formal response could be carried out. ::Do you have the identity of that source?::

::Yeah,:: Smokescreen says. ::Yeah, right, when those slaggers were trying to cover up their heinous fragging abuse. Agent was anon and had legit deep cover flags, but the allegations were category four so we had to track back. That was probably... Skids ran the analysis, 83% final id. That was Jazz.::

::I see,:: Prowl says. His tac net settles in a way it has not for cycles now (since an unknown interrogator walked into his cell). ::Thank you.::


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uuhhhHhHhHm

::Backup, Prowl! You need a backup!::

Prowl squints at a camera (76%; he may be looking at a discoloration on the wall). “I do not require a backup. In fact, Red Alert, please silence audio for this session.”

“What?” Ricochet says, raising his head. “Why?” He has a high enough baseline assumption of threat that he is likely uninterested in reassurance and asking out of curiosity (84%) rather than concern (56%). The best response is to ignore him.

::Why?:: Red Alert asks. He is concerned about tactical consequences to abrogations of security procedure (98%). The best response is to give a clear security-based reason. 

::Top secret conversation. Readable records could be dangerous.::

Red Alert pings back an acknowledgement and tac net idly offers 3% that he is listening to live audio anyway. (If Red Alert believes it secure, Prowl defers.)

Ricochet is chained again, though it is hardly necessary given the heavy-duty inhibitor set now installed. He has been left a generous (5.2 mets including frame) enough range of motion to seat himself sideways on his berth, pedes kicked up against his primary medical monitor. He wriggles his good arm under himself to sit up and watch as Prowl comes in. He looks less terrified than he did last Prowl saw him.

“Are you sedated?” Prowl checks him over, and spots a disposable med-chip plugged in to a software hookup.

“Um.” Ricochet follows his look. “Well.” (90% his systems have already countered the sedative applied.) “I was? Feelin’ better now, promise.” He looks not quite calm, but better.

“Good. I would like your attention for a conversation.” Prowl retrieves the chip.

Ricochet chuckles and hops to meet Prowl as he approaches, shifts from the berth and slings himself over the monitors and medical stands, propping them out to tilt under his weight. He manages to brace against them so that when the inhibitor pulse (from Red Alert) hits him he does not fall. 

Prowl is near enough to feel the thrum of EM and the huff of Ricochet’s involuntary exvent as he slumps onto the medical equipment with a shudder. 

Ricochet props his chin up on a hand, smiling faintly, visor less than a handspan from Prowl’s face. “‘Sup, Prowler?”

“Containment is a drastic policy. Optimus Prime does not abide by it.” Prowl was, indirectly, aware of the policy. He knew of espionage failures related to a hypersensitive infiltration response protocol in Decepticon ranks, as well as varying norms around code tampering and violence.

Ricochet’s smile melts off. He watches Prowl, motionless, expressionless. “Most of the mnemosurgeons were ‘Bot. We did what we had to do.” He says it in the same tone he had used apologizing for trying to help Bumblebee escape.

Technical quality of alternative strategies aside, Prowl certainly does not envy that position. “You will find we generally tend to a more” (yes, sometimes seemingly _short-sighted_ ) “personnel-conservative strategic philosophy. Bumblebee has been cleared of sabotage. He will be fine. We do not practice containment.”

Ricochet sits up to look Prowl over, setting his perch of medical stands wobbling and clattering. He drops to a more standard seated position on the berth, catches and steadies himself (under another inhibitor ping from Red Alert) on an end table. 

“You should not have pushed Bumblebee off the cliff,” Prowl concludes. 

Ricochet does not break his gaze from Prowl as he shrugs. “My bad,” he says.

Prowl studies the tension, the physical stress in Ricochet’s demeanor and the incongruity between his intense apprehension and measured insolence. “You anticipate severe consequences for provoking us. Me. And you continue to provoke. What are you trying to accomplish?”

“Accomplish?” Ricochet puffs air (and remains otherwise rooted in place). “Nothing really. Call it lack of self control, but, frag, might be pride.” He hums thoughtfully. “Kinda a liability but here we are.”

Prowl sighs. “Stop antagonizing us. This was an avoidable situation that could have easily led to your death. It would likely” (99%) “help everyone if you would verbalize your concerns before acting on them. I will make an effort to prioritize clarity and communication, and it would” (99%) “serve you well to do the same.”

Ricochet presses his hands on either side of his table to (87%) stop their shaking. He looks away, stretching his shoulders and neck. “‘Kay,” he says.

“For clarity. Are you Marshall?” Prowl asks. He is fairly (93%) sure he is not, but it is mostly a conversational opening to resolve some details.

“Uh.” Ricochet gets his shaking under control (disarmed by non-sequitur, 68%) as he looks back at Prowl. “What?”

Prowl realizes the ambiguity of his question. “Marshall was a real Autobot, last recorded on KGL-54 in 970.40, MIA. You have his credentials and, when you initially assumed his identity, I’m told you managed a reasonable facsimile of his Kalis dialect. What happened to him?”

“Oh.” Ricochet picks at a rough patch of weld on his side. “He died.”

“Did you kill him?”

Ricochet twitches, and his visor brightens. “No, no, I just stole his idents! He was — yeah, KGL-54 70.40, trench opposite mine, same frame type. We got a push, and held the — oh frag, wait, frag, I probably did kill him. Me or Turnpike, we were running mortar and he was prolly dead of mortar — frag, sorry, that was a bad thing to forget. Slag.”

He watches Prowl for a reaction. Whatever he sees has him fidget with one of his monitor lines and continue. “Um. I held a trench over his body for a deca, spent the time ‘fore he got recycled stealing his codes, reading his mail, all that. Gonna be an issue?”

“No. Past infantry action will not be held against you,” Prowl says, logging the information (easily in-model, true 93%). “I was more interested in your history of impersonation. Thank you.”

Ricochet’s visor brightens at that, and the fidgeting of his claws changes frequency. (Alarm?)

“You are difficult to work into simulations,” Prowl disclaims. “However, since you have expressed concern in this regard: your risk of execution, so long as you do not kill anyone, is around 4%. I am advocating to keep you classed as a protected asset.”

There is a flare of proper surprise at that, a longer than average pause before reaction. Ricochet’s visor flickers and he flashes a smile. “Aw, really Prowler? I knew ya liked me.”

“My emotional assessment is mostly irrelevant,” Prowl says with an impatient wave. “You do need to be more careful. You are obviously dangerous and need to be less obviously erratic in your decision-making. Execution may be the prudent option. If the situation were less…” Prowl sighs. “You are very good at escaping.”

“What can I say?” Ricochet says, smile broadening. “I got one trick,” (demonstrably false) “and it's a pretty good trick” (demonstrably true). He shrugs a little, and his smile fades back. “Not like I been getting very far lately, though.”

“Stop going anywhere, please. Work with us.” Prowl puts aside the dozens of threads on Ricochet’s risk assessments and focuses on his face, his frame, the near-silent whirr of his internals. “We are willing to work with you. If only because you have been sending us high quality information for vorn.”

He is too good to twitch or hitch a vent. Or perhaps (53%) Prowl misses a tell. Ricochet tilts slightly, pauses with what is meant to be — uncertainty? 

“What?” he says, blinking and then slowly refixing his gaze on Prowl. “I been—” He startles at something he sees in Prowl.

Prowl realizes he is smiling. Quite expressively. He allows it, grins as he retrieves and holds up the data slug. Prowl notches the slug into a port, whistles the first few notes of Salute to Prima, and applies the decryption Bumblebee described. It is, of course, a show, a piece of the interrogation script. Prowl has copied, checked, and cross-checked every cyte of data already.

Ricochet keeps uncharacteristically still.

The metadata is clearly hand-filled, but neat enough, a file tree organized under the title ‘Jazz’s Dessert Recipes: Autobot, sector A11.’ It is a collection of maps, tutorials, contacts, and instructions. Everything needed for someone with Autobot credentials and a vehicle alt to make it to neutral space under a new identity. “That is not the correct spelling of ‘desert,’” Prowl says.

Ricochet narrows his optics (a ripple of light behind his visor), frowns slightly. Then he laughs, sitting back and almost falling when he tries to lean on his damaged arm. “Wait, you — you think I’m Jazz? I mean, mech, I’m flattered, but that ain’t exactly a well-regulated trademark. Ain’t no sketchy sidedealer don’t have a pamphlet pack signed ‘Jazz.’”

“Yes.” Prowl mutes an irrelevant glimmer of old annoyance. “You are quite indiscriminate in data distribution. That was a major source of confusion, given how damaging such uncontrolled flow could be.”

“Nah, Prowler,” he says, shaking his head and aborting a dismissive gesture with his damaged arm. “I mean I mostly thought the name was some kinda shared pseudonym or — you tellin’ me Jazz is a mech?”

“I am.” Prowl gestures at Ricochet. “You are. A singular mech. There is some counterfeiting certainly, but Jazz is the regular codename of an Autobot-aligned agent active, for the past six vorn, in sector A1. Earlier records get less and less certain, due to a combination of war damage and deliberate misinformation.”

“Wait, wait, Jazz is a mech and a _‘Bot?_ It’s not — he’s vocally anti-political, runs slag for ‘Cons on the regular,” Ricochet says, rocking physically off-balance as he tries to shift while forgetting to compensate for his injuries.

“A useful pretense. You are loudly anti-political, but also an unapologetic liar. It is an oddly effective cover, and you operate” (acceptably) “within Optimus’s behavioral guidelines. However...” Prowl ejects the data slug and caps it securely. He resets his vocalizer. “To be embarrassingly transparent, we were unsure whether or not you were one of ours.”

Ricochet’s visor jerks from the slug to Prowl’s face at that. (Surprise, 61%.)

Clarity and communication, Prowl reminds himself, overruling his reluctance to admit mistakes. “In the earlier days, we were not prepared for the amount of damage that would occur. Records were kept in central locations, information failsafes were not redundant. Contacts changed. Handlers died, and anonymous agents continued knocking out cassettibots and splicing data dumps into their internal feeds.”

“...Y’all _lose track_ of agents very often?” Ricochet’s voice sounds calm, which is situationally inappropriate (off-balance, 65%).

“Very rarely. There is, of course, no deep cover Autobot agent named Jazz. Everyone uses codenames, and those are easier to lose. There was a shortlist of candidates for Jazz. All uniquely irreconcilable, for reasons that are becoming more clear now. You will likely be glad to know that you — Ricochet — were never considered.”

Ricochet snorts and leans onto the end table, dropping his chin into his palm (unwilling to look away from Prowl, 87%). “Yeah no slag, I ain’t—I don’t—I’m not _old enough.”_

Prowl waves it off. “Lies. Or an inherited identity. Probably lies. 91%, 40%. Good lies. You are good at forgery.”

“I’m a comm tech in a second-string scrapper base, _how_ am I gonna be some kinda... whatever the frag Jazz is?” He frowns and rolls his optics to look at a wall, but only lasts a moment before his gaze tracks back to Prowl. He may be a comm tech, but he is so obviously (100%) so much more that the claim is beyond weak.

“Why are you so chronically underfueled?” Prowl asks. “You are small and very resourceful.”

“You know that ain’t how resources — my fuel requirements are above frame spec because of bad mods, okay?” That is falsifiable, and Prowl suspects (68%) it will turn out at least mostly false. (Bad lies, an indication of panic, 90% conditional.)

“Yes, and you are also regularly overclocking and running missions in your off-shifts,” Prowl says.

Ricochet drums his claws against the table. “Sure. Ain’t a secret Prowl, I download sketchy slag and give it to people on crazy whims. ‘S how we got here. Don’t read so much into a fragging deserter packet. Jazz makes good sketchy slag available.”

“Yes.” Prowl places the data slug in question on the table, taps it lightly. “Plausible.” (Without priors, 89%, with priors...) “You’ve been rather careful to avoid linking your identities, once it became clear you had my attention. ‘Don’t kill him.’ Meaningless.”

Deep secrecy is not immediately intuitive but is generally explicable (personal paranoia 91%, complex partitioning 8[0-9]%, IA procedure 7{n{}}%, old directives ??).

Prowl spins the slug under a finger. “It was impossible to hide all linkage, of course. You were physically present at Garrus-3 as both Jazz and Ricochet. I assume” (89%) “that you knew that the records were damaged enough to introduce uncertainty.”

He is watching the slug on the table, trying to find a way out. He will not (97%).

“But before that, you slipped. On the Advance. You passed me some maps, unsigned, custom work. Then, you made a case for use of a particular style of freeform and improvisation-oriented music in encryption and data organization. And, at the risk of psychological profiling, I admit that continued exposure to your personality gave me a better understanding of...” Prowl flicks the slug across the table. “You. You explained your codename to me, Autobot Jazz.”

He catches the slug under a claw (moving quicker than the inhibitor effects ostensibly allow) and skewers it through. “Naw,” he says. “You’re wrong.”

“I am not,” Prowl assures him.

“You are, though!” He looks up to meet Prowl’s regard and grins, shakes his head with a slight laugh as he crushes the data slug in his hand. “Two things.”

“It ain’t a _codename_ — ‘s just my net handle,” Jazz says. His grin twists strangely, with — anger? “And I ain’t a _fragging_ Autobot.”


	17. Chapter 17

Ten straight fraggin’ vorns as Ricochet, boring Iaconian camera tech, and he breaks character for _one fraggin’ hour_ to do a quick bit—

They think he’s an Autobot. That’s unexpected — maybe a little more than it should be, he shoulda seen this coming — yeah, plenty of people call him ‘Bot sympathetic and that ain’t exactly wrong — Jazz lets it happen, runs bits that might scare off ‘Con contacts, leaves Meister the bits that might scare off ‘Bot contacts.

The world is spinning out again. Jazz resorts a million thoughts and tries to figure out up from down. He’s _dizzy._

“You are hardly a Decepticon,” Prowl says.

“Got a notch in my sparkchamber says otherwise,” Jazz says, and it comes out too _aggressive_ so he bundles it with a laugh, which just makes it worse. He’s a ‘Con. He is! From when he was young and dumb enough to take _oaths._

Prowl tilts his head, optics brightening slightly in thought. “Megatron has a personal bounty out on your helm.”

He does! “Oh, I ain’t checked that in a while, he outbid Zeta’s last posting yet?”

“Zeta Prime’s postings are at this point null. Death sentences typically discourage continued loyalty, do you mean to tell me that you are honestly loyal to Megatron?”

Jazz waves ambiguously. “That’s a Megatron thing, not a Jazz thing. He’s a touchy fragger, y’know? And I’m a bit of a — I touch a lot of slag.” He picks at the broken pieces of the data slug, peels a bit of metal out of silicon, and shows Prowl his fangs. “Autobot, though? Exactly how clear is your picture of what I get up to?”

Prowl hesitates before saying something — probably tactical, not necessarily something he should share. “About 80% of your activity is accounted for,” he says — aw, trust. “This includes some disputably sanctioned actions for example in Rotihex and PYG-14, which were still plausibly the work of an Internal Affairs agent making field judgements. With, perhaps, an unusual amount of latitude.”

Jazz planted almost two mechatons of explosives in the Autobot operations on PYG-14 — maybe overkill, he’d really wanted to get all the _backups._ He leans towards Prowl with enough intent to earn another burst of inhibitor — that’s really _fragging_ annoying — and stumbles a little closer to Prowl than he’d planned. He squints up at him. “I burned down Garrus-3,” Jazz says, not quite in the right tone to go with his smile.

“You have a reprimand on file for that one. It was a mess.” Prowl realigns his plating carefully. “Court martial found mostly in your favor, though.”

Jazz laughs at that thought, not sure exactly where it skips between scary and absurd. “Yeah, so, I don’t work for you!” 

It’s important. He’s not going to work for them. Jazz is no stranger to expedient alliances, but he’s also no stranger to how those creep and grow and he’s not going to give them his slagging people.

“You were, sworn or not, an Autobot agent,” Prowl says. He’s got a flat little tweak to his tone that Jazz would call uncertain on anyone else — _thinking_ on Prowl, fragger doesn’t stop _thinking._

“I wasn't giving you information, I was giving everyone information,” Jazz insists, sitting back up. He’s — out of tricks and better options — fragging _honest and open_ for a klik. “Ain’t tryna get the fragging New Senate or whatever to win, just trying to... slow this nightmare down. Throw a wrench in the war machine.”

Jazz finds the broken data slug again, plays with it. “Maybe call me a neutral? Ain’t like there’s a chain of command,” Jazz offers. “That I obey,” he amends.

“No,” Prowl says, all calm and slag. “We know you were an Autobot. You are too well-versed in a particular era of our codes and procedures.”

“I’m...” Jazz tries to figure out how suspicious that actually is. He peels another bit of metal out of the broken slug and drops it on the table. Pretty arrogant to assume security’s full-on invulnerable. “No — I’m just really good, Prowl.”

Prowl considers and dismisses some response. Then he nods. “Yes. Yes, I’ve come to the conclusion that you are a good person.”

Oh, he ain’t, though. He huffs and cracks a piece of data slug debris. “Psh, what the frag does that even mean in a world like this?”

“In this context, I mean you prioritize and go to great lengths to help people, and you attempt to sabotage institutions causing unnecessary death and suffering.” In Prowl’s calm tone, it sounds both more and less like the _threat_ Jazz knows it is, Jazz’s fragging _lever_ out there for use.

Jazz smirks and doesn’t look worried at all. “Generous fragging assessment for—”

“I recommend you cease trying to hide it. I have only brought it up with you explicitly out of — respect, to inform you that I am adding it to your file and will make high command aware.”

See, the thing is that Jazz is actually very fragging easy to manipulate and Prowl’s smart enough to do it masterfully. Threats and lies and pain and terror directed at him are — not completely useless, but, kinda clumsy, nothing he can’t handle. No, the trick is realizing that Jazz is an idiot who can’t stop himself from liking people, people who are more disposable to officers who want things, and fragging Prowl clocking Jazz like this has simultaneously found people he’s responsible for, and the fact that he cares about them.

Jazz laughs. “Wait, seriously? You put little dating profile notes in your intelligence reports? Edit a2521 to add, is a good person, I like him, per SA-Prowl.”

“Yes, when they’re strategically relevant.” Prowl’s mouth thins and his vents pick up a little strength in annoyance. “As you must know, given that you’ve quoted the correct update format.” Whatever, it was funny.

It's over. Everyone he’s worked with — his little network is against the wall and he knows it's never mattered much in the scheme of things, but it's mattered to individuals, and it's over — most of them are going to die for making the mistake of trusting or just relaxing around him. It was good while it lasted, at least.

Jazz keeps a mask of amused disbelief up — he can’t think of a fragging _out._ Prowl watches him, patient, polite.

Jazz cracks. “Please don’t write it down,” he says. “Do what you gotta do, but you don’t gotta write it down.” Prowl might just be enough of a control freak to handle Jazz himself. If it’s just Prowl, it might not be so — it could be worse than just Prowl.

Prowl frowns, flicks his good wing about an inch. “You have nothing to be concerned about. I have full faith that this will be taken as an endorsement to allow trust, rather than an exploitability,” he says, not actually taking it back.

“Why you gotta say anything, then?” Jazz asks. “If it’s for real for my sake, tell you now I’d rather you don’t tell anyone any fragging thing.”

“It is not just for your sake,” Prowl says. “I am confident that we will work well together, Jazz. How long have you been undermining the Decepticons?”

Jazz has interrogated people before — hacks and scrapes, sure but he’s actually better at the chatty scrap, getting people talking and picking useful intel out of friendly conversation. He knows the dance well enough to know he’s not doing well and still he can’t see a better move than answering, plunging along whatever arcane fragging script Prowl is reading off.

“I’ve been Jazz since I was a kid,” he says, going way too honest way too quick for no fragging reason. “Not legally, it’s a common fragging des and a good way to pick fights. Head down, that's the name of the game ya hear? Confusingly common makes it pretty good for a nickname and net handle, though — ‘specially when you get real into stealing and sharing information. Always a good time.”

Jazz pulls another part off the data slug and idly brushes the best bits for reuse onto the floor. “Got good at machine hacking for the fun tricks and the — ah, discounted media. Got _interested_ in it when I got to people getting real picky about what other people were allowed to read or see or know.” And frag but a stupid part of him misses the bad old days sometimes, when he wrecked slag without even knowing he was doing it.

“So,” Jazz says. “How long the ‘Cons been getting undermined by me? Dunno, when about did mirroring banned slag, sharing raw footage, and telling folks how to disappear into the stars turn from something the Senate wanted Jazz dead over to something Megatron did?”

Prowl squints thoughtfully. “Probably, 94%, following the capture of Nova 53.”

Hah, yeah, clever Prowler, probably then — Nova 53 was a bad enough time that most of the unit just wanted to go home after, and Jazz may or may not have lined up some security schedules, reskinned some ship credentials, and generally aided and abetted a mass desertion. 

Jazz laughs, stretches, and kicks bits of slug under the berth. “Yeah, that slagged Megs off but good! That’s the boring answer, though. I ain’t out to oppose the ‘Cons, and this slag’s been more of a slow tipping than a fast switch, get me?”

“Understood.” Prowl nods. He’s got the tiniest little smile as he processes that against his working models — Jazz can’t decide if it’s infuriating, terrifying, or adorable. “Not an Autobot. You have been a... you’ve been Jazz, a source of independent, opportunistic chaos.”

“Yep,” Jazz says. “Just a glitch fragging with the fraggers around me.”

Prowl looks at him and frag — Jazz thought Prowl was studying him earlier but Prowl’s been thinking on the side, keeping his own thoughts, and that’s suddenly stripped out he’s just looking at Jazz and there’s no distance at all — Prowl’s got him under his full overwhelming concentration and it’s — it’s potent.

“You do not need to be alone,” Prowl says.

 _Frag_ but they are swinging wildly between good and nightmare outcomes, here. The ‘Bots will _not_ get Jazz’s network — they might be looking at him like an actual ally with actual bargaining power if he plays it right — Prowl wants him. A stray thought catches like a fantasy — him and Prowl against the world. He brushes it off immediately.

“‘Course I ain’t alone. I wouldn’t be able to run a single fragging hustle if there weren’t people everywhere ready to spit on the rules. I got a system going and ain’t nobody need ‘Bots pawing into it.” Jazz picks through the leftover bits of data slug, all stage confidence, and sweeps them into his hand as he shoves himself to standing — _fragging_ inhibitor burst throws him a little — it’s fine, he leans on a drip stand and meets Prowl’s look earnest as anything. “Let me go back to the ‘Cons,” he says.

He talks fast. “Look Prowler, you got my number now. I like to hang in terrible places and casually sabotage them. Strong play for everyone is putting me back where I was. My name is Ricochet and I missed my shift in interrogation because I glitched out in a rathole from some ill-advised patching after a processor assault — or something, whatever, details. I crawl out into ‘Con lines, get back to it, you update my personnel files, and we can call it a good day.”

Prowl reaches a hand out, palm up. “Data slug, please.”

Jazz drops the crushed bits of slug in Prowl’s hand without breaking optic contact.

Prowl’s expression picks up a thoughtful cast again as he puzzles the broken data slug back together. “That is one potential story. Being a lie, it would require some conspiracy, strict secrecy from at least three mechs. If the truth were to come out, the consequences would fall largely on you.”

Prowl’s _brilliant_ — that ain’t just a threat of blackmail, that’s a _deniable_ threat of blackmail and Jazz doesn’t believe for a second Prowl did that on accident.

“If you try to blackmail me into being a double agent, it’s gonna go bad,” Jazz says, without even a hint of humor.

“Is that a threat?” Prowl asks.

“Yeah, I’d think so.” Crazy, reckless, sure, whatever, this is slag to cut off before it goes anywhere. Double agent means twice the risk, twice the sins, and no backup. ‘Con working for the ‘Bots — under _blackmail_ — is a _bad_ outcome.

Prowl tilts his head slightly and Jazz can fragging _see_ him pick some new conclusion out of fragging _nothing._ “Being sent back and operating largely as you were but with more Autobot oversight is hardly the worst outcome for you.”

“Sure,” Jazz allows. “Just want ya to know that it ain’t the best one for you. Stubborn little bit of me refuses to operate so good under the whole ‘obey or get tortured to death’ management philosophy.”

“It would not be like that. We do not...” Prowl says. He closes his hand over the busted data slug and vents deliberately. “Very well. Another potential story. You were a deep cover Autobot agent, records and handlers lost. Through recent events, you have been recovered. We update and clarify your status, and you resume being one of us, officially.”

Hah, fragging war alliances. Smart play might be to take it. Wheedle, balk, stonewall anyone prying too far — say yes now and stall it out in negotiations. Take the red paint and get access to a transceiver that can reach Soundwave. One more lie, little more time bought, little closer to getting gone. “No,” he says.

Jazz has no idea whether he’s going to die on this hill. He hopes not. “I ain’t gonna give you my contacts, and I ain’t gonna be your assassin.”

Prowl stares at him a long time, long enough that Jazz starts to feel the weight of his own frame on all the fractures and sore spots he’s standing on — he woke up to getting shelled and slag’s only gotten crazier since. “You are a pacifist,” Prowl says, and to his credit he sounds like he recognizes he’s wrong.

“Nope.” Jazz drops back to his medberth, moving fast enough to get that predictable fragging — is that Red Alert on the pings? — inhibitor burst to help him down, crashes him onto his back like he’d been while riding out Ratchet’s sedation earlier. He shakes his head. “I'm a lotta things, but pacifist ain't one of them. Violence is how I done some of the best — most good — things in my life. I’m good at it. And it’s fun.”

“I’m just—” He’s — he’s not saying the right lines to get out of here and on with his life. He’s _tired_ and he’s just _talking._ “Why’s it gotta be such a big deal?” he grumbles at the ceiling. “How’s it such a radical fragging concept to think everything, everyone is more interesting — more beautiful — alive than dead?”

The ceiling says nothing.

“There are non-combatant roles that would benefit greatly from your skillset,” Prowl says.

“Mneh,” Jazz says. “I’m slag at those. Almost got smelted for my last performance review.”

Jazz can’t see Prowl, can’t read him for tells. Hears a soft windy noise as he vents. “This would be when you said that they were just posturing and you were safe,” Prowl says.

Jazz shrugs, much as he can flopped gracelessly on a berth he’s chained to. “Lying.”

With a scuffling sound, Prowl appears at the edge of his vision. He’s pushed his way through the monitors and stands close to better loom in and make optic contact. Jazz gives him a wink. 

“You should discuss your ideological concerns with Optimus,” Prowl says.

Jazz flinches before he can help it then — not an act, not a ploy — laughs. He laughs, uh, maybe a little too hard, a little too long. “No,” he says.

“Why not?” A tiny frown tugs at the edges of Prowl’s expression.

“‘Cause you want me to, and you know what’s what,” Jazz says. “You think he’s gonna talk me around and, Prowl, I don’t want to be talked around.” He’s already so fragging off balance, he’s at risk and he knows it. Jazz makes a lot of bad decisions, even when he’s not surrounded by fragging Autobots who know way too fragging much about him.

Prowl cuts off a noise of irritation — Jazz fraggin’ nailed that read. “Fine. Please keep it in mind. And know that I take issue with your certainty that Autobot collaboration would be so ethically fraught.”

Jazz scoots backwards and props himself up — feels maybe he should be a touch more formal if Prowl’s gonna be rolling out phrases like ‘ethically fraught.’

“Have you considered,” Prowl says, fixing Jazz with a look of strained patience, “that in your erratic crusade against abusive authority, you actively seek out horrifying and dangerous situations, and may have ended up with an experience skewed towards the horrifying and dangerous?” He sounds — there’s this — ah. Prowl’s got a tight edge to half of what he says, and Jazz is coming up on sure that that’s anger. Prowler’s got a deep fragging ocean of frustration just under the steady demeanor.

We’re not all that bad, Prowl means. You’ve seen some slag, but it’s not all like that, he means. 

“Sure,” Jazz says.

Prowl watches him with that heavy attention again, feels like prickles under Jazz’s plating. Prowl’s got a surprising knack for this interrogation thing — got a gift for creating silences that beg to be filled. Jazz is good, knows to ignore those in a verbal spar. But this, at this point, ain’t really one of those.

“Not really a relevant consideration, though,” Jazz says.

Prowl’s nose scrunches very slightly as he figures through that. Then he nods once, like he does. “Because this is a potentially horrifying and dangerous situation you’ve put yourself in,” Prowl says. “I see.”

Jazz quirks him a thin smile. Reliably clever, Prowler. “Let me go?” Jazz asks, real soft. “For favors done?”

Prowl drops down to the floor. Jazz sits up more to watch him fish around under the berth and retrieve the bits of data slug Jazz kicked over there earlier. Ah well.

Prowl fits pieces into the reassembled data slug in his hand. “No,” he says. “You are a known, habitual, dare I say brilliant liar. Trusting you would be idiotic.” He gives the data slug a once over, subspaces it, and looks back to Jazz.

Jazz grimaces and shrugs. What can he say?

Prowl sighs. “You will not be blackmailed and you will not be harmed. If you have a clean identity to occupy — ideally, one that is not stolen — we will make arrangements to secure you on base with half clearance, as a hostile asset.”

What? Jazz sits up and makes a little noise to help clue Prowl in on that being a fragging surprise. 

“I do not require your loyalty, but I do require your temporary compliance. Your behavior cannot continue as it has. However, given your extensive history as a...” Prowl’s practiced air of command falters a tic — “neutral vigilante, some retroactive allowances may be appropriate.”

Huh. “Vigilante?” Jazz huffs a little laugh. “I kinda like that.”

“I thought you might,” Prowl says, a tiny little ghost of a smile under his professional Enforcer face. 

Jazz grins back, momentarily distracted.

“This is strategic. I believe wider exposure may aid in convincing you that we are practically and ideologically compatible. Defection is an open offer and I recommend you consider it,” Prowl says. He looks at Jazz. “I am courting you.” He pauses with a flicker of thought. “I am not attempting to be subtle.”

Jazz can’t but help a little choked gasp that he’s pretty sure is supposed to be a laugh. “Ain’t ya, though,” he mutters, unable to look away. Prowl, rightfully, ignores him.

Prowl methodically composes himself. “You will not be allowed to leave until we have captured Pavar bridge. You are, after all, not an Autobot. I understand that you have had negative experiences and do not trust me. I apologize for the discomfort and, meanwhile, I... hope to wear you down on my personality.” Hah — fragger’s smirking at Jazz a little as he goes.

-

Red Alert stops by with Inferno, and leaves a pile of flimsies outlining a set of rules that is _actually impossible_ to obey. Then Inferno stops by on his own and trades that for a set that’s strict but fair. He doesn’t say anything, but Jazz reads an apology in the shrug he gives before he leaves.

Then they don’t carefully process and release him so much as — well.

The door opens on a powered assist so it can’t slam open — it’s barely slid enough to let a mini through when Ratchet presses half through it. Ratchet is covered in energon, swarf, and streaks of ash. He points at Jazz. “Asset, clearance half,” he — asks.

“Been told,” Jazz says, sitting up carefully. Jazz has seen ritual mutilation that made less gore than Ratchet’s carrying on him.

Ratchet pushes the rest of the way in, reads rapidly over the monitors. “Medic-3?” he grunts, then turns over a shoulder to holler, “Bring him in! And grab an extra cart!”

“Ain’t licensed.” Legally, Jazz doesn’t even exist.

Ratchet squints at Jazz, disconnecting monitors and drip on automatic. “You did Bee’s field repairs.”

“Yeah.” Jazz shifts to let Ratchet free him from the medical equipment — and also his restraints. 

Ratchet helps him upright and neatly hauls him out of the way as a medic — less gory than Ratchet but not much — shoves into the room with a loaded gurney.

“Station C,” Ratchet says. He’s already on his way back out the door and he’s dragging Jazz along like he just forgot to let go.

This might be a trap or a test or a weirdly stupid idea. Jazz follows Ratchet out — what else is he gonna do — and almost trips on a mech pushing a med cart the other way.

In the medbay — there are a lot of mechs in the medbay. Ratchet releases him and strides off as he points Jazz towards Station C. Jazz wades through — walking wounded, dying guy, walking wounded, dead guy, grieving partner, walking wounded — bubbling paint, melting lines, _heat._

Poor fraggers tripped a thermyte cloud. Unusual they ain’t all dead — musta managed a defensive force field — but there’s time for that yet. Jazz grabs a melt kit and the nearest casualty and throws in with the rest of the semi-skilled helpers scraping out fire and clamping leaks.

Medical rush lasts maybe a joor and then Ratchet’s sweeping through kicking out anyone who’s “—healthy and clogging up my medbay — not you you glitch, you, you, you, out, out!” and Jazz — bizarrely — finds himself in a mess hall adjacent to medbay, one of about thirty mechs, varying levels of shocked, overclocked, and in pain.

He’s got a stack of rule flimsies tucked under plating, he’s inhibited to Pit and back, covered in heat-curdled energon, and he’s tired — and they’re just shoving him in a warehouse-turned-mess-hall, fragging really?

Inferno catches his attention from a dozen mets away and signs for _’Caution,’_ with a severe look. Jazz salutes sloppily and blows him a kiss. He’d smile too, but he ain’t really feeling it.

So, ‘Bots are kind of a fragging shambles here. He’s got no privacy now, but if Jazz moves careful, maybe starts a distraction — of fragging course he pocketed an arcblade and some medgel — he could win a couple joors free. Relays are slagged, so he’s not going to be able to get a signal out by conventional means. Blaster’s got the internal reach to do it if he’s still alive — it’d be hard with his mods hard offline but if Jazz gets him alone for a joor he could hijack Blaster’s line and get something out. It’d be tricky, and it’d be — it’d probs break into top ten creepiest things he’s done to an old friend. Call it Plan B. Something to think on for more than a klik.

Jazz blends back into a corner and carefully smooths down the patch over his brand. The mess is too quiet for the headcount. No one here knows him and a solid chunk of them are starting to shoot looks at him like they know it. He can hear groans and sobs and at least two fraggers screaming in the other room and it’s making it hard to think. There’s too much quiet, too much noise, and he needs — he needs a person. 

There’s enough mechs in here, some of them are gonna be good to talk. He spots — frag, Bee, looks like he really is alive — and _cleared,_ right. Jazz wants to see what he’s like now but that’s not something he can handle right this second. Better choice, table over, staring at a half-cube of energon, is Hopper. He knows him, from a job and a couple quartexes of shared drinks in Rodion, but — huh, does Jazz _have_ a good name that he didn’t steal off a dead mech?

He makes his way towards Hopper, mentally flicking through their mutual acquaintances. He almost makes it. Bumblebee heads for a dispenser on a path that — of course — brings him close by and then he takes a stumbling pivot and bodily intercepts Jazz.

“Ah, sorry!” Bee says, shooting a quick glance around. His optics are focused correctly, his voice too fragged to diagnose integration issues, he’s — kinda twitchy, but it’s hard to tell if it’s freshly-reprogrammed twitchy or mostly-crushed-yesterday twitchy. “Your comms are down.”

“Yeah.” Jazz blinks, remembering the channel he left in Bee’s contacts. “Medical thing. Sorry.” Also, back up a klik—

Bee leans in close and talks quiet. “Hey, should I pretend I don’t know you, or...?”

“You remember me?” Jazz says dumbly. Electric disorientation pulls him in too many directions — they fragged it, don’t let them know — Prowl said he’d be fine, what did you think he meant — sometimes it just doesn’t take right the first time — he’s okay? “You know who I am?”

“Seriously?” Bee makes a noise that he shouldn’t with his vocalizer so fragged. “How would I forget you? You’re—” he drops his volume even lower and grins all excited. “You’re Jazz, aren’t you?”

That — uh, that’ll do. 

Jazz laughs hard and, once he gets it under control, grins conspiratorially at Bumblebee. “‘Ey, it’s a common name, don’t ya read into it.”

“You know him, Bee?” Someone cuts in. Ooh, heavy strain of suspicion there from the table Jazz had been headed for. Got their attention with that laugh. There are five mechs at the dusty table, three with limbs or plating missing — awaiting repair or replacement; four running their fans at an unhealthy whine — overheating, in pain, stressed, take your pick; all five watching Jazz with something wary.

“Uh. Yeah.” Bee looks back and forth between the group and Jazz. “He’s...”

Jazz cocks his head at Hopper. “Hey, ain’tcha Uptone’s friend? Hopper, right?”

Attention redirects to Hopper, who startles and blinks at Jazz. ”Well. Um. Sorry, who are you?”

“No worries, we didn't really know each other!” Jazz snags a busted crate big enough for him and Bee to share as a chair and swings it around to the table. “I used to race with Ups. Jazz.”

Jazz swaps introductions around the table like he can’t tell they’re tense, and after a sec he can see them wanting to relax. “Sorry Hopper—” he says. “Bee, I know Hopper ‘cause we gave him endless slag for falling onto the track in the middle of the Iaconian preliminaries.”

“Oh Primus,” Hopper says, but he’s laughing at the memory, ‘cause he’s — always been — a good fragging sport. “Nooo, I almost forgot about that!”

“He wasn’t even in the front row!” Jazz grins, drops an arm around Bee, presses up some against the mech on his other side as he shares and pries out old memories, because the space around the table’s pretty tight as everyone settles in. 

It’s good. Pleasant, safe, almost technically within the rules they’ve given him. Sit and wait and don’t do anything dumb. He’s got a lot of practice with that — he’s very good at sitting and waiting. He’s also, though — Jazz is also an antsy fragger who makes bad decisions — he makes it about a cycle before he has to go antagonize Prowl.


	18. Chapter 18

All machine networks are still down, and will take parts they do not have to get back to full function. Prowl is forced to work with limited resources, though Blaster was finally available to assist him passing coordination through the area and prevent Q company from stumbling into an (96%) ambush, is finally able to help salvage the mess of coordination. 

Optimus is throwing things into disarray, and Prowl needs to debrief with him but has somehow run out of blank datapads and needs to change out his key set anyway. He copies and collates as he walks down the hall and steps into his office for some quick analyses (and a moment of peace).

“Okay so Prowl I meant to ask—”

Prowl pulls his rifle and fires at the intruder in his office.

“Woah, hey!” Jazz ducks and skips from his sights like a shadow from a searchlight as Prowl automatically tracks him. “Hey!”

Acid hisses on the cabinet Jazz had been standing in front of 0.8 nanokliks ago, dripping down towards the bottom drawer. Prowl swears under his breath and sidesteps towards the cabinet, keeping his rifle drawn, armed, and pointed towards Jazz.

“That’s a dangerous fragging reflex,” Jazz says, stepping slowly away from where he was sheltering behind the desk, hands up.

“Not for me.” Prowl does not look away from Jazz as he reaches the cabinet. He keys open the drawer and shoves the contents (dead datapads, extra machine parts, and obsolete hardcopies, 97%, tac net belatedly offers) out of the path of the dripping acid before they can be damaged. 

“What the frag? What if I was Smokescreen with a report, or just fragging lost?” Jazz quashes some dramatic gesture into a non-threatening twitch of his hands.

“Impossible.” (<0.01%) “I always lock my office.” Prowl unsubspaces neutralizing powder and throws it carelessly at the mess (at least the office was already messy), minimizing the time he is not gripping his rifle. This has only been his office for a cycle, and he has spent a total of two hours in it due to all the chaos elsewhere demanding his attention. Regardless, the claim was important, and he always locks his office.

Jazz gestures acknowledgement and uses the motion to slowly drop his hands into a more casual posture. “Okay. So, Prowl, I meant to ask, who else knows about the Ricochet-Jazz connection?”

“Red—” Prowl squints, his need to look away and regain some space warring with his need to keep Jazz in view. “No. How did you get out of your cell, and what are you doing here?”

“Ratchet kicked me out — made me tie lines in the medbay for like a joor — then Inferno set my tracker and Hound said that Inferno said to — look, it’s actually not as horribly insecure as you’re probably assuming.” Jazz shrugs and reaches for the chair behind Prowl’s desk. 

“That is absurd,” Prowl contends. “You are absurd. Don’t move!” Jazz pauses. Prowl comms Red Alert and is redirected to Inferno. 

::Prowl? Did the Decepticon show up?:: Inferno’s voice is laced with stress static.

Prowl frowns as he clicks the safety on his rifle. ::Yes. I would have appreciated a warning.:: (Jazz inches towards the chair, as if Prowl cannot see sufficiently slow movement.)

::Oh s- _scrap_ ,:: Inferno says. ::He said—scrap, sorry, it’s been hectic.:: 

Prowl pings acknowledgement and signs off. It has indeed been hectic, and if Red Alert has collapsed (93%) then Jazz may, somehow, horrifyingly, (72%) not be the current most urgent security concern.

Prowl eyes Jazz, who has ensconced himself into the (Prowl’s) chair behind the desk. He does not need to clarify. Jazz knows (99%, 87%, 9*a%). “Do not break into offices,” Prowl says, to make tac net shut up. “This is a violation of your parole.”

Jazz grins and Prowl tries not to have an emotional reaction. “Ain’t like there was anything fun in here before you showed up,” Jazz says. “I just wanted out of the hallway.“ (Why? Lie? 61%) “Catch you to talk a breem in private?”

Prowl takes a vent cycle to resign himself to the shift in immediate plans. Despite the extremely inappropriate preliminary, he does have much to speak about with Jazz. This is a more welcome distraction than he will ever freely admit. Prowl puts his rifle down and leans some weight on it as a cane (improper gun handling; he is in his own fragging office). “I will overlook this,” Prowl says, “if you tell me who you were as an Autobot.”

Jazz sits up and slams a hand down on the (on _Prowl’s_ ) desk. “Mech, lie detection is a fraggin’ _myth,_ what the frag _are_ you?” 

Prowl savors whatever it is he is feeling (smug). He grasps the back of the unoccupied chair in front of the desk. It is identical to the other. “That, or the reason you will not even pretend to defect,” he says. “I am interested in both answers but at this time will accept either.”

“The thing is—” Jazz spins to watch as Prowl drags the empty chair around the desk. His smile fades and he does not successfully hide slight twitching (fear?) when Prowl takes hold of the chair Jazz is sitting in. “It’s, uh... Prowler?”

Prowl ignores the (minor, 20% risk of strain) ache of exertion as he drags the chair, and Jazz in the chair, around to the front of the desk, to the proper place for a guest to sit while meeting in his office.

Prowl slides his own chair into place and sits behind the desk. He arranges himself, faces Jazz and pretends that he does not find Jazz’s discomposure amusing. “Why do you call me that?” Prowl asks. “My name is Prowl.” 

Jazz spends 1.4 kliks staring at Prowl, head tilted, caught motionless half-gesturing and half-smiling, before he reanimates. He drops his hands to his lap, huffs a very soft laugh and sags into posture poor enough to look borderline uncomfortable. “Prowler? Well,” he says, “best guess, because it irritates you, and getting a rise out of you that you're too professional to act on makes me feel like I got a little more control over things, which helps me manage the fact that things are mostly terrifying.”

It abruptly becomes easier to act like he does not find Jazz’s discomposure amusing.

Jazz reestablishes a smile and meets Prowl’s stare sideways. “What?” he laughs. “I can be honest. How’d ya like me honest, Prowler?”

Prowl feels like he has misjudged the terrain and missed a step. “I appreciate it,” he says. Jazz seems to be misreading (?) Prowl in confusing directions. “And I do not mind the nickname.” (The first time he heard it, Prowl, without exaggeration, wanted to kill him.) “It has grown on me.”

Jazz watches him from across the table, expression set in amusement, actual thoughts unreadable. Prowl does not know what to do with uncertainty, so he ignores it, keys open his desk drawer to fetch the blank datapads he had originally come to retrieve. 

Prowl counts and checks each datapad to make sure Jazz did not tamper, and waits until he has finished and can pay full attention before speaking again. He watches Jazz, faintly laments the lack of recording that would allow him to review the encounter more carefully later. “Why are you so unwilling to be an Autobot?” 

Jazz stays slouched back, though he kicks the floor to spin himself until he is pressed against the desk (closer to Prowl) and leaned more perpendicular than away. “Honest?” he says, quiet enough that Prowl would have been unable to hear him from any further apart. “It don’t really matter. You don’t actually want me.”

A diversion and a confession and Prowl almost reflexively pauses tac net before it identifies (vulnerability 94%). There is something delicate in the room here and Prowl keeps his tone unperturbed as if that will prevent him from destroying this. “I assure you we do,” he says dryly. 

Jazz shakes his head slowly, optics pointed somewhere vaguely off to the side. “You don’t even know who I am.”

That is generally but not entirely correct. Prowl is working on it. It has been difficult to refresh and update intelligence on Jazz without a reliable connection to data servers, but Prowl has started. It is always difficult to take a personal measure of an individual, but Prowl is trying that, too. Prowl calculates how far he would have to move to intercept Jazz’s field of view and judges it too far (and unnecessary). “Who are you?”

Jazz twitches a smile at a patch of corrosion on the wall he’s staring at. “Defective,” he says, and Prowl trips (as 92% intended) on the wordplay. Tac net tries to seize the chance to up-resource background threads and Prowl aggressively cuts the _distraction._ “A defector, a liar, a spy, and a sympathizer. I’m a—”

He tilts his head only a few degrees, to look over his shoulder at Prowl. “What use you got for a saboteur who can’t follow orders?”

Prowl is not (is seldom) ready for the sudden rhetorical question. Pushing aside a tangle of possibilities, he picks at a (key) correction. “Who doesn’t follow orders.” Jazz’s uncontrolled behavior is protest (83%) far more than indiscipline (11%).

Jazz holds optic contact so Prowl does not look away even though it makes it harder to think, slows his careful navigation to the next point. 

“How did you get out of Decepticon Special Operations?” Prowl asks, fingers twitching for the datapad he has been using to compile his notes on Jazz. A liar and a saboteur, someone unknown — Jazz has another identity (several, at least one of immediate relevance).

Jazz laughs and shoves off the desk, spins his chair to face Prowl the other way. Prowl takes the moment to rearrange his files.

“I wasn’t actually _in_ Spec Ops, that was just an explanation for mods ‘n slag,” Jazz says.

Prowl checks that against his notes and finds it lacking. (Lie, 92%.) Prowl looks up to call it out and Jazz gestures rudely.

“Not technically,” Jazz says, before Prowl can say anything. “Contractor. Regular contractor with DSO for a while, ‘till I quit that noise.”

Prowl nods, back on track. “What happened?”

Jazz shrugs and raises a brow at Prowl. “What didn’t? Got sick of targeting neutrals and civvies,” he says. The same answer he gave Smokescreen, consistent with his recent claims, and a deliberate (76%) misunderstanding of Prowl’s question. 

“That is a common enough position, even in DSO. They should have simply filtered your assignments,” Prowl says.

Jazz drops his hands to the desk, the better to support himself as he angles in and smiles at Prowl. “People should do a lot of slag they don’t.”

“They _would_ have simply filtered your assignments, but never mind,” Prowl says. “You have obvious ideological misalignments with DSO, I was not asking why you wanted to leave. _How_ did you leave?”

“Filed notice and retired?” Jazz says, deadpan. Then he laughs, drops an elbow onto the desk and droops further forward. “Also, mighta faked my death.”

Prowl nods and marks that in his notes. “How thoroughly?” Killed, or will he have to include Missings? Candidates for Jazz’s Autobot identity (identities) have already multiplied out of control now that Prowl is extending to assumed deaths, reducing his Decepticon (contractor, aligned neutral?) candidates as much as possible will simplify things radically.

Jazz hums and shrugs. “Dunno. Wasn’t real thought-out, more opportunistic. I was looking for an out, right? Just another mission off killing ‘Bots, killing organics, killing — sacrificing, whatever — my own fragging crew with great efficiency, and, end of the day, checking body after body that coulda been me, I figured — frag it. Frag the whole thing. I — Prowl.” 

Jazz sits up without sitting back, bracing himself forward, demanding attention. Prowl clicks off his datapad and looks up.

Jazz’s expression is serious. “I ain’t kidding. I’m done with that slag.”

Prowl frowns. “You are not. You have been an active agent up until — you passed intelligence to Bumblebee very recently.”

Jazz pulls back and makes a face. “What? That — that ain’t the same thing at all.”

His point (differentiation between military and independent operation, meant more as a proxy for clearer coupling of ideological motivation and field action) is valid but weak. “Close enough,” Prowl says. “Your objection, your ‘inability to follow orders,’ is related to the organizing authority, not to the nature of your profession. If anything, it reflects well on you that you do not flourish in Decepticon command.”

Jazz lifts a hand to start a gesture, only to give up with a faint laugh. He shrugs and settles back.

“Whatever.” Jazz looks down to examine his fingers, flitters each claw in and out in an idle wave. “‘Bots are just as bad,” he says, blatantly, appallingly _false_ (lying, mistaken, provocation, _simplifying,_ %, some %s).

 _“We are not,”_ Prowl says, much louder than intended. 

All of Jazz’s claws come out at once and his visor jerks to Prowl. 

Prowl realizes he is twisting his datapad near tolerance and puts it down carefully. “We are not perfect,” he says, more quietly. “No one is. That is no excuse to stop trying to be _better.”_

“Better?” Jazz slowly retracts his claws and puts his hands down, presses fingertips against the desk like he is pushing back on microtransformation. He leans forward, close enough that Prowl can see the hairline fractures of unintegrated repair on his visor (close enough to swipe Prowl’s throat before there is time for an inhibitor pulse). “You think you’re better?”

“Everyone,” Jazz says, whisper-quiet and clearly audible, “thinks they — thinks even if they’re slag — at least they’re _better.”_ He grins, and it is not a happy expression. “Let me tell ya, I’ve been here! It always feels _better_ when — every time I’ve joined a new fragging _cause_ it was gonna be better and — gang’s running frames, join the feds — ‘Bots are disappearing people, join the revolution — frontline’s a fragging murder party, get into — Ops is — is — _every time —”_

Jazz draws back. He drops back in his chair abruptly, shakes his head, and laughs. “No. Not again. I ain’t gonna throw in and — and become yet another, _better_ kind of monster.”

Prowl forgets a vent, assembling his understanding. He dismisses a rise in frame heat and mutes tac net’s frantic (sabotaged by Jazz’s deluge of information) attempts to _assist._ This has the unfortunate side effect of leaving his anger unchecked.

“You are a creature of impulsive and intuitive moral judgement. You make major decisions with little thought because they _feel_ right,” Prowl says, the anathema of that reduced given the relative weight of other issues. “You are telling me that you recognize that your faction is monstrous, and that working with me — with us _feels better,_ but in this _one_ circumstance you are ignoring that because you have _given up_ on distinguishing between political groups.”

Jazz grips the arms of his chair and his demeanor, his demeanor does _something,_ indicates something _important_ and Prowl is _fragging powerless_ to understand it.

A misstep, Prowl registers belatedly. Jazz needs time, and is disinclined to listen to rhetoric. Prowl will not persuade him. Prowl is a strategist. He plays strengths. He does not persuade (89%). 

Prowl vents, calms himself. “I apologize,” he says. “I do not demand your allegiance. I would like to request that you meet briefly with Optimus Prime, perhaps in a group setting.” (Prowl does not need to understand Optimus’s charisma in order to apply it.)

Jazz’s grip on the chair tightens enough to draw a creak, and the light behind his visor narrows and flares near white. “I don’t want to talk to Optimus fragging Prime.” His tone is too low and too even. 

Prowl matches his narrowed expression, shallowly buried anger peeking out. “That is _irresponsible._ You _know better_ than to ignore relevant situational factors, and Optimus fragging Prime is an extremely relevant factor.”

A faint growl comes from Jazz, the first time Prowl has heard an engine noise from him that is not obviously voluntary. “Maybe!” Jazz releases his grip on the chair all at once and sits up. “But maybe, I worked for Sentinel and Zeta.” A grin stutters across his expression, fails to take, and drops into nothing. He shakes his head slowly. “Far as I can tell, the matrix is fragging _evil._ Maybe,” he says, looking very intently at a blank spot on the desk in front of him, “I don’t need to see what it did to Orion Pax.”

Prowl’s thoughts swim and he (adjusts a timeline in Jazz’s history and) prioritizes at random. “You knew him.”

Jazz sits back and gestures dismissively, shedding off his coiling tension in a moment. “Eh. Everyone knows everyone, there ain’t that many of us,” he exaggerates _preposterously._

Jazz spins his chair to catch himself sideways against Prowl’s desk again, and drapes himself far enough forward that Prowl has to sweep his datapads out of grabbing range. “Why’s it matter?” Jazz asks, smile distinctly coquettish. “Rather talk to you, babe.”

“It matters,” Prowl says, and surprises himself with the frustration in his voice. “Because people will die. And they will die because I am _somehow_ so _inept_ at conversation that I am unable to convince someone with all the _idiotically heroic_ characteristics _plaguing_ the faction to join the Autobots.”

Jazz collapses laughing. It is mostly due to structural fault, a small collapse from where he was already slumping. He is also laughing quite hard. 

Jazz pushes himself up, pulls his chair back in where it has slipped out due to his constant motion. He contains himself back to chuckling, and smiles at Prowl. “I worked for Sentinel and I spied on Zeta,” he says, settling forward in a way that makes Prowl’s threat response instincts take notice. “Do _not_ spin me that ‘hero Bots evil Cons’ scrap.”

Prowl manages not to twitch backwards. After consideration, he breaks optic contact, stows any lingering frustration under the familiar layer of guilt. He nods. “I worked for Sentinel, and for Zeta.” Prowl looks up, meets Jazz’s steady stare like it means anything. “And for Optimus,” he says. “Things are different now.” (They _are._ )

Jazz studies him for two kliks even, then turns slightly and sighs. “Look,” he says, sitting back. “Trick a mech into working for a totalitarian religious autocracy once, shame on you.” He points scoldingly at Prowl with one hand and uses the other to brace against the desk top and spin himself again, visor pointed vaguely at the ceiling. “Get tricked into working for a totalitarian religious autocracy twiii... hm, more than once, shame on me.”

“I’m a fragging Decepticon,” Jazz says. He swivels back, folds his hands, and, after a moment, pulls a crooked smile (one that does not trigger a threat response) at Prowl. “But frag me if you don’t actually seem half okay,” he murmurs. “And that’s why I won’t pretend to defect.”

Contrary. Oddly sober, oddly honest, for a mercurial spy. Inconsistent, but in a way that is consistent enough with Jazz's inconsistency for Prowl to carefully box the paradox.

Prowl nods. “Understood.” 

He traces back through the conversation. “Ricochet,” Prowl says, “and surrounding circumstances are now classed top secret. Optimus Prime will receive the full story in the near future. Red Alert, Ratchet, Smokescreen, and Ironhide will have relevant details as necessary. Display reasonable discretion and I believe the identity will remain usable.” Ricochet’s strategic intelligence positioning is worth moderate effort to keep Ricochet from getting burned.

“You, meanwhile, most likely are ‘Con infantry who got caught up the train shelling, and in protected status due to mutual rescuing with Bumblebee leading to a crisis of ideology that we are attempting to exploit.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s me.” Jazz nods eagerly, his smile taking on a wider and more obnoxious aspect. “Nice to meetcha, I’m Jazz.”

Prowl pauses, and waits for tac net to return a verdict on exactly how bad an idea that is. Jazz is a minorly famous neutral in niche circles. Also, a common name. (0.4% chance of incident.) He vents. “Very well,” Prowl says. _Jazz._ “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yeah.” Jazz laughs, leans an elbow against an armrest into an almost normal seated posture and resettles himself without letting his gaze slip off Prowl. “Yeah, I came to — to strike a deal,” he says.

“We will not release you,” Prowl says, to abridge a round of negotiation. The conversation has been taxing, and Prowl will soon be running late for a meeting.

Jazz cuts off a noise before it forms into proper words. He chuckles and nods weakly. “Right. Fair. What about a phone call? I got a message I gotta pass.”

Prowl frowns. “That is roughly the reason that we won’t release you.”

“Yeah, yeah, obviously, I promise it ain’t ’Hey Soundwave look over here ‘Bots tryna be sneaky!’” Jazz raises his voice, addresses that roughly upwards, and successfully makes Prowl bristle with nerves. Jazz snickers. “I’m an ‘active agent,’ I got slag to handle. Monitored line, half nano delay, pre-checked destination, finger on the killswitch is fine.”

Monitored, pre-addressed, and on a delay, reduces the scope of potential damage. “Give us the message, and if it is harmless, we will pass it on free of exchange,” Prowl says. “A show of good faith and mutual interest.”

“Nope, Jazz network updates, not slag that needs to get written down and passed around,” Jazz says easily, shaking his head. He shrugs at Prowl. “I’m willing to trade for it.”

He is making him ask (theatrics). “Trade what?” Prowl asks.

“Supplies,” Jazz says. “I know a place that’s probably got the R-series lines you need to get this slagheap back on the grid.” (A distinct tactical benefit, tempting.) Jazz’s visor sweeps briefly over Prowl. “And definitely has an ample supply of coolant.” (Critical, negotiation advantage to Jazz.)

Prowl double checks a datapad. “We recently received a delivery of the raw materials we were hurting for.” Enough to bring them out of crisis and into critical, enough to buy another cycle or two, according to Ratchet and Smokescreen’s notes. “Additionally, surveying our inventory for vulnerabilities is arguably a hostile act, please refrain.”

Jazz glances at the datapad in Prowl’s hands, then shakes his head. “A delivery ain’t gonna cut it,” he says. “I wasn’t — ‘kay I poked at a console or two to check for the R-lines, but I wasn’t surveying. It was — Ratch apologized for the low coolant ration and that weren’t great infosec, but mostly it’s—”

Making a face, Jazz curls his claws against the side of his chair (oh, tactile audio amplification, 97%). “If you tune just right I think you can hear it from here,” he says, looking in the direction of the medbay. “All the mechs screaming of overheat.”

No, Prowl is fairly (82%) sure this office is sufficiently soundproofed to disallow that, but he knows of the issue anyway. 13 mechs in the process of melting out, 57 at high risk of death or long term damage, and about 34 in significant discomfort due to lack of proper coolant. “The altruistic action would be to give Ratchet the supplies unconditionally,” Prowl notes. (The bargain is in part an excuse to offer aid, 66%)

Jazz plays no emotion, makes no sound as he turns, slowly, to look back at Prowl. 

Jazz regularly dumps updates to his network, often (71%) time critical events and almost always (97%) to a neutral to positive overall impact on Autobot positioning. Concern over pre-disclosure is unwarranted but consistent with demonstrated mistrust (89%). A lie is possible (62%) but underlying ploys are counterable (97%). 

“A monitored long-distance communication in exchange for access to supplies,” Prowl summarizes. “Provisionally agreed.”

Jazz takes a moment, unmoving. “Provisionally?” he asks.

“Details—” Prowl collects his words carefully. “We’ll need to resolve details with broader command.” He sets his expression. “You really do need to talk to Optimus Prime, if only practically.”

Jazz scowls and half swivels away. At least he does not display obvious panic or hatred.

Prowl allows a flicker of annoyance. “Consider it a condition of the agreement,” he says. “And, if possible, consider it an _opportunity_ for you to confront your irrational biases.”

Jazz looks back up to Prowl with a frown. “You’re... kind of a prick, huh?” he says, but there is no heat in it (a twitch towards a smile with it) and Prowl finds it has no sting.

Prowl smooths his annoyance but is careful not to go far as to smile. “So I have been told,” he says.

Jazz smiles with one of those one-breath laughs that he seems to use for punctuation. “Right, too, though.”

Prowl allows the smile through. “So I have told people.”

Jazz laughs and shakes his head. “Fine. I’ll talk to your fragging haunted pope-king.” The (relative) ease of his agreement can only mean that he does not know (96%). 

“Thank you,” Prowl says, and retrieves a scheduling datapad from subspace. He updates Optimus’s schedule with a pleasant feeling that, Prowl thinks, specifically comes from redirecting an unreasonable situation onto someone with a careful plan. He thinks he may understand the appeal. He even thinks Jazz will find this amusing, eventually. 

“Done.” Prowl grabs a flimsy and stamp set and, in short order, neatly marks the proper schedules and receipts. “After security and briefing, he will meet you in interview room 2.” Prowl folds Jazz’s copy and passes it over. All necessary times and instructions are clearly labeled.

“Frelling—” Jazz snatches the flimsy and flicks it open, looks rapidly between it and Prowl like he does not know which is more upsetting. (Relatable.) “He’s here?” Jazz squeaks. 

Excellent, their security is not purely ceremonial when it comes to Jazz after all.

“How long’s — has he been here all along?” Jazz is blinking, fidgeting a knee as he (94%) tries to figure out the strategy behind this. He will not (95%). Because there is none.

“No,” Prowl says. His glee at Jazz’s obvious foundering has less to do with sadism, and more to do with the satisfaction of sharing the pain of dealing with _Optimus fragging Prime._ “He just _showed up,_ actually.”

("I heard you needed supplies," Optimus said, pulling up through contested territory with a single escort.)

Prowl stands up. “He is expecting me. I will let him know you are coming. Shall we?”


	19. Chapter 19

After a quick, high-level, succinct _overview_ of the main reasons that the political leader of the Autobots should, without any question at all, _not_ personally and with minimal preparation drive a trailer of assorted supplies across a war zone and into a abominably insecure base already containing a distressing number of—eventually, Prowl makes it to Jazz. “Ricochet,” Prowl says.

Optimus’s blast mask is retracted so that Prowl can more easily read his expression, and he sees it slip (too quickly, moving on too easily from Prowl’s _explanation_ ) from penitent to interested. It is not that Optimus does not understand the importance of his actions, the staggering _substance_ of his risks. He simply does not emotionally internalize consequences he has avoided. It reminds Prowl, somewhat, of—

“He is, and this is top secret, an agent tracked in our employ.”

Optimus visibly perks up in posture and smiles at Prowl. “Oh?”

“The details are somewhat complex,” Prowl says. “It seems that ‘Jazz’ was mismarked as a codename, and though the activity tracking was accurate, Jazz has been acting primarily under his own direction.”

Optimus blinks. “Oh,” he says. He squints and rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Ricochet is Jazz? I have a good impression of Jazz. Am I missing anything?”

Yes. Both of them are (99%), missing important pieces (98%). Prowl grimaces. “He’s a Decepticon.”

Optimus looks back to Prowl. He stares for 2.2 kliks. “I don’t understand.”

Prowl, to be completely and brutally honest, also does not understand. He makes an unhappy grinding noise and offers a hardline connection. “It seems something of a complex but important identity to him. He is very skittish of us. I’ll give you the working file. Please read it. I have already arranged a meeting.”

Optimus accepts the file with a gentle brush of systems. “Thank you Prowl.” He frowns, optics incongruously bright as he reads at practiced archivist speed. “Oh,” he says again, looking away. He shakes his head. Then he blinks and smiles at Prowl. “Complex, but this is fantastic news, isn’t it?” His mask snaps shut, and Prowl loses any sign of the smile. “I look forward to meeting him.”

-

Jazz is a fragging spy. He knows the newest Prime doesn’t look or sound like the last few. He’s heard the damn speeches, watched most of the good propaganda vids. He fragging knows the Prime is different, that’s _why_ he’s — scared honestly ain’t even the right word.

He’s not scared of him being petty like Sentinel or sadistic like Zeta or zealous like Megatron. Jazz’s got enough — he knows how to bow and submit to and _survive_ a tyrant, and they’re horrifying, it’s all horrifying. There is no way of leading an army that isn’t horrible, and when he figures out exactly how ‘horrible’ sits on Orion Pax, it’s going to break something new — something old — in Jazz. 

At the moment, Orion — the Prime is getting chewed out by Ratchet. At volume. “— _not_ get to mark your medical check-in tentative!”

His angle ain’t great, but the Prime appears to fidget. “I need—”

“Ep, ep, nope!” Ratchet steps in, looks like he’s running a scan, just, right in the middle of the rubble-filled atrium. “You need to consider your own health and limits at least as much as you’d consider—” Ratchet casts around quickly, without backing off the Prime “—Prowl’s.”

Prowl tenses. “Please don’t bring me into this.”

“Ha!” Ratchet laughs darkly. “Ha, oh, Prowl, don’t act like you’re any better, we’ll talk later Prowl.” Ratchet shoves — Jazz’s been shoved like that, it’s more careful than it looks — the Prime towards a collapsed wall big enough to sit on, and calls back at Prowl, “And check your fragging reschedules!”

Prowl vents deliberately and clenches his grip on the datapad in his hands. “A defector meeting is priority 3 anyway,” he says halfheartedly after Ratchet, more to himself.

That’s a strong fragging entrance cue, so Jazz hops down. “Did you just call me a defector? Prowler, you know that’s really a personal choice—”

Jazz is blessed with a genuine, flared plating, involuntary noise, startle. “Kkxsheee!” Prowl says.

“—and it just ain’t trustworthy unless my whole spark is clearly in it, right?” Jazz resists the urge to throw a friendly arm over Prowl. His ‘shoot first’ instinct is apparently office-only, but Jazz recognizes a mech who deeply does not want to be touched right now. 

Prowl’s hand twitches towards a spot on his chassis that had an emergency signal button a long, long, time ago. “What are you doing? You should be supervised.”

Jazz waves his schedule slip. “Hey, I’m where I’m supposed to be, and I’m supervised!” He throws a smile up towards the nook he’d dropped from.

“Hi Prowl!” Bumblebee pops his head out and waves. “I’m supervising! Jazz is teaching me how to stealth without mods!”

Prowl stares at Bee like he’s trying to convince himself of something. Jazz wrestles down lingering uncertainty — Bee’s safe, Prowl meant Bee was going to be fine, reaction is pointless. Bee leans further out and waves across the atrium at Ratchet and the Prime. “Hi Ratchet! Hi Optimus! I’m in an insulation tunnel!” he calls. The Prime waves back before Ratchet grabs his hand and sticks a cleaning hook under a seam.

“Hey, hey, didn’t we have plans, Prowler?” Jazz waves his schedule slip again, shifting slightly between Prowl and Bumblebee. 

Prowl straightens — more somehow, this is not a mech with slouched posture — and nods. “Yes. Bumblebee, you are dismissed. Be aware that deliberately sneaking up on people is rude.”

“Okay sir, sorry sir!” Bumblebee’s voice drifts from the insulation tunnel as he crawls off.

“Funny, though,” Jazz says as Prowl leads him to interview room 02. Route takes them mostly away from where Ratchet’s hunched over the Prime, and Jazz lets himself enjoy the sparkbeats of time bought. “Big guy double booked? We can rain check.”

“Just some hurry up and wait. This is still the military.” Prowl looks back at Jazz, with, swear, a little wry humor. “He’ll meet us shortly. Ratchet is not doing major medical treatment now. He is mostly scolding Optimus.”

“That a good use of time?” Jazz asks as Prowl swipes into a room.

Prowl shrugs. He looks drained, more distracted than Jazz has maybe ever seen him. “It is his turn,” he says distantly. “I had debrief. Ironhide had the drive over. If any of it sinks in, it is an invaluable use of time.”

He’s — he’s fragging kidding. Exaggerating to sell Jazz on — something. Jazz watches the door slide close, muting Ratchet’s ongoing rant. “Y’all seriously run your army like this?”

Prowl makes a funny whining noise like he’s trying to turn a scream into a laugh. “Would,” he says, “that this were a show for your benefit.”

That’s a whole different kind of disturbing.

“Hey.” Jazz leans on the interviewee chair, casually checking the restraint setup as he keeps Prowl in his peripheral. “You mad at Bee about something?”

Prowl looks up from his datapads and wavers a moment before he takes a seat. “No,” he says, frowning as he figures out his words. “I am... wary of Bumblebee’s understanding of your security status.”

-

Intuitively, Bumblebee is a terrible choice to mind Jazz. Tac net, however, blandly insists that Bumblebee is observant, already informed of Jazz’s status, comfortable contacting officers at early signs of trouble, and seems to enjoy some favor with Jazz.

“You worried about what he knows?” Jazz asks. He settles himself into the opposite chair, reflexively trying to kick it sideways before sitting. The chair is welded to the floor and does not move.

“No,” Prowl says. There had been a frightening moment, when it became clear that Bumblebee _knew,_ before analysis of potential sources of information leak self-canceled under a stronger case. Bumblebee, (Bumblebee figured it out himself, 96%) Bumblebee did not receive the same information (it is not _the same_ ). “Bumblebee’s exposures to you were drastically distorted, he should not have inferred your identity. He was only coincidentally correct.” 

Jazz studies him and, gradually, smiles in a way that makes Prowl brace to be annoyed. “Wait. Are you _jealous?”_

He almost crashed _three times_ puzzling out Jazz. “I dislike positive reinforcement of bad reasoning.”

Jazz laughs, allows him his evasion. He drums fingers along the table, and his smile is a little too fixed as he looks at Prowl again. “You,” he says, “really don’t do defensive reprogramming?”

Jazz has had enough opportunity for genuine investigation to come to that conclusion legitimately. Contextually, he seems to be weighting Bumblebee’s treatment somewhat heavily, possibly over-weighting an untrustworthy cultural impression. Bumblebee was already a relatively low risk case. Jazz is (only coincidentally, 70%) correct.

-

Prowl keeps himself from saying the first thing he thinks. Damn, Jazz wishes he had that level of basic self-control.

“The Autobots have not sanctioned reprogramming in over 30 vorn,” Prowl says.

Jazz loses his smile fast. “Don’t _lie_ to me Prowler.” Whoops, that’s more important than he meant to let it get.

Prowl focuses. “You have evidence?”

“Alta Kalis, 96-7.” At least four dozen mechs, too fried to even understand rescue when it came.

“Alta Kalis.” Prowl nods and clicks at his datapad, ducking Jazz’s glare like he doesn’t even notice it. “Did you file a report?”

Jazz loses his glare. “A—I don’t work for you?”

Prowl waves without looking up. “Ah, here it is. As Jazz, but third party. Follow-up... it has been resolved. Ordinarily, the details would be confidential, but exceptions are made for individuals with salient personal interest. Would you like to file a request for information?”

File a — Jazz automatically checks his balance, gauges the distance to that datapad — might be able to snag it — and accidentally meets Prowl’s optics. Prowl’s optics narrow and he carefully clutches the datapad back. Jazz sits back deliberately. “Yes,” Jazz grumbles.

Prowl tucks the datapad away, but he nods. “High level, the facility was shut down. Allow a few additional cycles for a detailed response, given current prioritizations of our administrative capacity.”

Prowl’s a beautiful fragging piece of work, and Jazz can’t stop watching him, weirdly awed, as he nods at a comm, gets up, and retrieves some cuffs for Jazz. Jazz picks a comfortable enough configuration to get cuffed and magnetized down. Prowl’s professional and quick and done with it and gone before Jazz can ask him to stay.

The door’s not fully shut before it pushes open again, and Ironhide walks in before Jazz finishes reorienting his entire fragging emotional base and gets his optics pointed safely at the interrogation room table.

The Prime walks in. 

Jazz doesn’t feel anything, doesn’t think about anything, pretends the solid clangs as Ironhide takes the back corner and the Prime sits down don’t give him a perfect echo image of the Prime looking Jazz over and nodding a greeting.

Jazz picks ‘bland, inoffensive, kinda oblivious’ for his look and sells it, sits still and polite.

“Hello,” the Prime says. 

“Hello,” — what the frag does he call him? — “sir.” The Prime allows that with little enough movement that Jazz can’t read an expression.

“What should I call you?” the Prime asks.

“I’m Jazz, sir,” Jazz says, bland, inoffensive, and kinda oblivious.

There’s a bit of a pause and Jazz can tell the Prime wants him to look up, but he pretends he doesn’t see that slag. The Prime starts to speak, and falters a syllable when he resets his vocalizer to an almost absurdly gentle tone. ”Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” 

Leave. “I was—” Jazz says, “C-can we talk about—I— we had a deal.” Haha, wow, Jazz would be embarrassed if he could feel anything other than _nerves_ right now.

“If you’d like,” the Prime says. He leaves a little spot for Jazz to cut in if he wants. He doesn’t want. “You have access to supplies?” the Prime prompts.

Jazz starts to nod on automatic, catches it as he shifts to actually remembering what he’s doing. “Not strictly, sir,” he says. “I have coordinates and operational details for a nearby location. I don’t have executive say in what they do, but they should have R-lines that they don’t need and...” Okay, technically, not coolant. 

The depot’s more organic than not, they don’t overstock coolant, wouldn’t bother anyway since — as anyone who’s lived on a shoestring in blended areas knows — Jazz glances around, checks the cameras and observation window, who would know... “You know how to compound water for coolant?”

A little pause. “Yes, I’m familiar,” says, the Prime actually — sounding some kind of interested. “Yes, I believe that was common for explorers during the age of — ahem. Yes. You have water?”

”Not on me, but lotta organics around here are practically made of the stuff.” He pushes on before he can worry about getting caught, it’s only a half lie anyway — he didn’t see any of the necessary equipment during his not-surveying-for-vulnerabilities, it’s _safe._ “It’s not clean for use once it’s in them—”

Mech comes in fast and Jazz is in no position to provoke so he flinches but doesn’t dodge, gets grabbed and yanked _up_ with enough force to rip him from his seat _through_ the fragging magnetization — something snaps in his chassis with a funny twinge but whatever — first, online optics like to short when they shatter so he shuts them, second, he’s got an uneven bit of armor at risk, slicks it down so it — hopefully — won’t puncture anything when he gets slammed into the table — 

“Ironhide!” Scuff and shift at the other side of the table means the Prime’s standing up fast, angry — frag, Jazz didn’t really need to know what he sounded like angry.

Ironhide doesn’t slam him down yet, hauls him around with a rough shake that means ‘look at me you fragger,’ so Jazz looks, sees Ironhide hopping fragging mad right in his face, gripping Jazz like he’s ready to make a _point._ Jazz's instincts scream for him to twist and try to squirm free but there's a heavy layer of experience on top of that that makes him go limp with just a little, easily suppressed shudder.

So Jazz fragging botched ‘inoffensive’ with _impressive_ speed and verve, what, is Ironhide that fragging squeamish? Religious purist maybe?

“We are _not_ rendering organics for coolant,” Ironhide growls _dangerous_ — that’s terrifying, and that’s also _stealing Jazz’s fragging line_ out from under him, so Jazz stumbles a little off-script.

Reflexive response is _Why not?_ and thank _frag_ Jazz catches that before it makes it out even if that leaves him stuttering clicks in the space where he should maybe be — begging? He cuts his next lines, skips over the part where he makes that case, leaving his survival instincts behind somewhere — wait, is Ironhide soft on squishies? — and beaming affectionately at Ironhide. “Rad.”

Ironhide tightens his grip and his growl crescendos into a menacing rumble Jazz can _feel_ — feels like he’s in real danger here of, best case, losing some plating to a furious Autobot. 

Jazz shoves down his reflex to struggle free, nods meekly. “Y-yeah—that ain’t what I was—”

“Ironhide, put him down,” the Prime insists — firm, still angry, but he’s got it under control — what’s he gonna do with it?

Ironhide drops him back in the seat before Jazz can get a read on how slagged off he still is, and then the mag field nudges whatever it was that snapped in him and there’s a lightning dazzle of pain and Jazz chokes a little, wincing against errors and maybe a fragging knife through his guts.

“What’s wrong?” The Prime huddles in, probably, Jazz ain’t paying attention, he’s busy — not faking — it hurts.

“Careful!” Ironhide shoves across, pulls the Prime back and slams a heavy arm between them, powers up an energy weapon in Jazz’s direction. “I didn’t, he’s—”

“Jazz?”

“I’m fine!” The feeling of something wrong in his gears finally settles into something familiar. “I’m fine, sorry! Old injury, unlucky tap.” Non-standard transducer, Ratchet put a standard baffle on it, and the thing’s fragging snapped and is loose in his chassis, urgh. 

“Well!” Jazz says, shifting back carefully, exploring how the fragment of baffle rests in his internals. “Or harvesters, but it’s a well — lotta organics need ready access to water so places with long-term organic presence have water wells or harvesters, I know a trade post near here that’s got R-lines and a water well.” Smuggling depot, if you want to get Intergalactic Commerce and Transit Standards about it. Where will there be in evac? All clear? Ignored the message? They’re independents, probably somewhere in between.

A hand appears on Ironhide’s bulk and guides him out from between Jazz and the Prime. “I’m sorry,” the Prime says, in the tone that actually means ‘what the frag?’ “Are you alright?”

“Yes sir.” Jazz is pretty sure that the loose bit is settled and fishing it back out is a problem for later. “I can’t negotiate on behalf of the trade post, or guarantee that they’ll be willing to render aid,” he says. He keeps himself facing the table, forces himself to check up behind his visor to look at the Prime’s face. “What are you going to do?”

The Prime’s optics are all solicitude and thoughtful attention. He nods, keeps looking at Jazz like he just doesn’t notice that Jazz’s watching the table. “The coordinates and any possible preliminary introductions with the trade post will be sufficient for your bargain.”

The — oh. That’s nice. Not at all what he was getting at, though. “What are you going to do to the trade post?”

It’s hypothetical — it’s frag, please, mostly hypothetical. What’s the usual clear time? Depot’s competent, chaotic, full of people well used to getting the frag out of dodge soon as they can, but poorly equipped to do that, the civvies and kids will have cleared out first — they’re not all clear. Jazz’s guess — almost all the in-transits are moving out now, most of the staff and regulars are still in, and some of them are still gonna be there when the Bots roll in. Jazz is, at the moment, gambling with their fragging lives and yeah, put it on his fragging tab.

The Prime hesitates a moment, not like he’s about to lie, but like he takes a sec to get the question. “You suggested that sparing the supplies would not be a hardship. We’ll negotiate a trade. We’ve credit in local currencies, and often do this successfully.”

He says it like that’s how it goes. “You’d already have the contact info if I’d given it to Bumblebee. I didn’t give it to Bumblebee, because it’s — they’re mostly aissevite, sir.” War refugees, running from a freshly uninhabitable homeworld and the fallout of their desperate alliance with the Decepticons. “They may not take too kindly to Autobots showing up.”

The Prime blinks, optics flickering as he goes over whatever he remembers of — aissevite politicians making some bad fragging deals, is how Jazz remembers it. “Oh,” he says. “Northern aissevite, I assume. Do you have reason to expect outright hostility? What type of team would you recommend for negotiation?”

He’s sticking with it. He doesn’t look like he’s lying. If he lies, Jazz can’t read it in his expression, so Jazz stops trying to. He’ll just have to guess, play careful.

If he says yes, they go in armed. “No,” he says, slow, careful. “Small team.” He pauses, just in case, just in case it actually helps. “If you got someone familiar with smuggler humor, him.” Swear to _Pit_ if Sideswipe gets everyone killed over a fragging prank—

“Jazz.” The Prime shifts, still trying to get Jazz to look at him. Jazz ain’t having it. “We are not going to raid this trade post.” Jazz _doesn’t know_ that and he’s honestly not sure he’s going to live to find out. 

Frag, the Prime can say anything he wants right now. Jazz can’t think of a way to pick out a lie from here.

The Prime tilts his head. “Would you like to accom

-

pany the team?” Optimus says, voice and demeanor level, giving no indication he even hears Prowl shouting at him. 

_::—ly unacceptable!::_ Prowl shouts at him. ::The logistics alone in practically transporting him are high risk — team lives, Optimus! You cannot ask your team to risk their lives!:: Prowl brings out the argument variation that works best, and Optimus does not even stutter as he makes the offer.

::I would be comfortable with the risk,:: Mirage says lightly, optics not focused on anything in particular as he toys with a planning datapad (58% deliberately provoking Prowl). Prowl snatches the datapad from Mirage and resets a variable to let risk calculations begin to cascade.

“That can’t be a good idea,” Jazz says, amazingly the only person in the room making sense. 

Prowl passes the datapad back to Mirage, who accepts somewhat clumsily. Mirage still has grime and minor damage, from close combat and driving rough, enough to afflict him with jerky tremors that medical has not had time for, that medical is unlikely (9%) to have time for before Mirage has to drive out again for this supply run.

At 3 kliks without a response from Jazz, tac net flags his deliberation as unusually thoughtful (only 20% attributable to nerves around Optimus). Prowl pushes risk of key data omission higher and watches Jazz’s response closely.

Jazz shakes his head, a small movement, in keeping with the drastically reduced drama of his frame language in Optimus's presence. “No,” he says. “Just me, my inhibitors, and an anxious Bot field team? Nah, I’ll pass. Keep the team smaller is better.”

-

“Why’s that?” the Prime asks. He knows reasons, he’s just trying to sound out Jazz more.

“For a negotiation? Keeps it calmer all around, right?” They’ll need enough of a convoy for safe travel, a hauler or two for the actual supply aspect, total party size shouldn’t need to get big enough to hopelessly overwhelm the depot, if it comes to it. “Less risk of escalation.”

“What sort of risk should we be prepared to face?”

The depot’s lightly armed — not full-on peaceful, frag no, but they’re basically non-violent, defended by secrecy instead of gunfire. There’s no way to be honest about the depot size, setup, approach routine without making it clear how easy they are to just raid and be done with — if he plays up the threat they might put more effort into negotiating, or they might go in too hard — they’re supposed to be evacuating anyway, Bots really might show up to an empty base free to strip for supplies — nobody is ever where they’re fragging supposed to be. 

“They’re lightly armed and non-violent,” Jazz says, like a prayer.

“That’s good.” Still not looking, but Jazz can hear the fragger smiling. “Are you willing to give us complete coordinates and background before you receive your end of the bargain?”

“No,” Jazz says, steady and almost fearless. “My side should be quick, I want it first.”

A datapad pushes across the table into Jazz’s view. “As much as you will for now, then. We would like to move as quickly as possible. Are you ready to send your message immediately?”

Jazz fights a flinch as Ironhide messes with his cuffs and magnetization to give him enough motion to write. “Yeah. Yeah now is good for me.”

He’d rather do most of the write up before the call, though, so Jazz grabs the datapad and scribbles in contacts, context, codes — slag they’ll need, but not quite all of it yet. He’s still a glitch, so he doesn’t take the chance to shut up and write until the Prime leaves. “You’re going to go to a sketchy unlisted trade post mostly held by old enemies, and you’re going to diplomatically negotiate a trade for essential supplies, yeah?”

“I look forward to it,” the Prime says. “I think it’ll be fun.”

Jazz doesn’t laugh. “You’ll be sending enough firepower to level it, though,” he says, pausing long enough to remember how to spell Zg’Sottr. “Just in case.”

The light tone is gone from the Prime’s voice, then. “We are, by our nature, very capable of destruction.”

“What if they don’t want to trade? Sir.” Jazz starts in on the long list of cultural don’ts — how many of the variants of the ‘don’t shoot strangers’ rules do they need, he wonders.

“Do you think they won’t want to trade?” the Prime doesn’t sound irritated, just mildly curious.

“I don’t know they’ll want to trade.” Probs mostly to have something to do with his hands, Jazz errs on over-explaining ‘seriously, no murder’ norms.

“We have been very successful in negotiating in the past. I believe our team will be able to manage it.” The Prime knows what Jazz is asking, he’s just refusing to answer now. 

“If you aren’t? If they don’t want anything to do with you?” Jazz insists. He’s still got light pen pressed to datapad, but he’s out of mindless slag to write and it’s not moving.

The Prime sighs heavily. “We would try very hard. But we’re managing now, without, and we’ll figure something out.”

Jazz jerks the stylus, messing up a section of input. He resets it, puts the datapad down, and grabs the table tight to get a sharper echo image on the Prime. He seems sad. 

Jazz sneers. “You’d let your Bots melt to death before you raided a lightly protected depot of fugitives?”

“We are lucky,” the Prime says, something hard in his voice, “to have more than those two options.”

Jazz laughs, a little more forced than his usual. “M’mech, ain’tcha been told it’s bad luck to be lucky—”

The Prime takes a sharp breath and base code instincts make Jazz flinch and look up for what’s coming in response to his overstep and what he gets is Orion Pax’s _struck_ expression and a feeling like he’s stepped off a ledge — he’s staring at him with something like _wonder_ and frag, frag, that’s enough to get Jazz to let go of the table so that when he looks away he can’t see Orion at all.

Jazz hunches over his datapad and checks it over for typos or deadly oversights.

A long silence. “Have we met before?” the Prime asks, gentle.

“Definitely haven’t!” Jazz laughs, skimming back to the top of his write up.

Jazz taps pointlessly in and out of a section like the Prime isn’t sitting there _obviously_ searching him for—

“Stop that!” Jazz barks. It’s clumsy, stupid, rude, bad enough that Jazz cringes and braces for — a smack? Honest, least of his concerns, the Prime is reading his spark or something and it’s awful.

“Right. Sorry.” Sound of a deliberate vent, a slight scrape as the Prime turns away. It’s enough to make Jazz glance up, startled, and see Optimus Prime pointedly looking off to the side.

“It’s nice to meet you,” the Prime says, turning back and catching Jazz staring. He stands up and nods formally at Jazz. “I look forward to working with you.”

Jazz jerks his visor back down, but it’s a down-and-up twitch and then he’s gawping at Optimus Prime because, “Did you—did you just stop trying to recognize me?”

The Prime blinks at him. “That was my understanding of your desires.”

“Y-yeah,” Jazz says. “I mean, yeah, you got that right. But.” Looks like they’re staring at each other now, okay, okay. “F’real?”

“Jazz.” The Prime meets his gaze. “Ricochet, Marshall. Whichever you prefer. I will respect your boundaries.”

Not a fragging hint of lie, and there’s a paranoid piece of Jazz impressed by the best liar yet, but. “You fraggin’ well shouldn’t!”

Yeah, he straight up scolds the Prime, and he hears Ironhide behind him shifting uncertainly but the Prime just smiles beatifically at him like Jazz doesn’t know that’s what his smirk looks like.

“Hm. It occurs to me,” he says mildly, “that you cannot tell me what to do.” He nods at Ironhide, smiles at Jazz. “Until next time, Jazz.”

Jazz watches the Prime go, sees him walk — limp, he’s hurt or tired — out, and when he’s out Jazz digs in and tunes to make out the faint trace of activity as the Prime settles in the other room, huddles with the mech there. Jazz is aware of the door opening and Prowl walking in, but it’s not loud enough for him to need to retune or urgent enough for him to take his attention off the silent conversation next door. He can’t make out words or any kind of detail and he’s maybe just watching the Prime and hoping for information he ain’t gonna get.

His careful eavesdropping fizzes to noise and pain under a shattering metallic clatter and Jazz flinches — desperately muting and reorienting, catching himself and his loose baffle against magnetics — whirls wildly for a source.

Prowl looks up from the chair he’s just knocked over. “I apologize,” he says, baldly unapologetic.

-

Jazz blinks at Prowl, and a grin spreads slowly across his face before he laughs, smoothing and resettling his plating. “Nah, my b Prowler, distracted. Here, this should do you for pre-plan.”

Jazz pushes the datapad of notes across the table. Prowl takes it, glances it over for obvious omissions. Jazz returns to staring intently at the observation window.

Prowl follows his gaze, which is useless because he cannot see through the mirrored surface. He can, however, infer. “Optimus?”

Jazz nods without looking. “How is he still _alive?”_

Prowl hastily heads off tac net’s attempt to call up the long and terrible running risk assessments related to Optimus’s consideration of his personal safety. He _knows_ already. “Through the continued efforts of a good team,” Prowl says.

That gets Jazz to look over, flash Prowl that now familiar fond grin. 

Prowl twitches his lips back, not quite a smile but something like it. ”He is not Sentinel.”

Jazz’s expression drops to neutral. “So he ain’t,” he says. Noncommittal, cautious. 

Prowl thinks he may have said the wrong thing. No matter, he often does. “Blaster will be in shortly to facilitate your long-range communication. Will you be ready?”

Jazz draws himself in, shedding off both his distraction and general amused aspect. “Yeah. Quick and easy. Whenever.”

Prowl studies him carefully, finds the subdued fidgeting. He demagnetizes the chair. “As you are aware, our coolant is rationed and low quality. If pacing would calm you, I recommend you do so. We’ll be ready in less than an hour.”


	20. Chapter 20

Jazz paces to calm himself. The room is plain and grimy and washed out with the annoying shrill buzz of feeds and interference and at the same time everything is vivid — world’s got the bright and sharp edges it takes on when Jazz is doing something risky and then there’s also that heavy feeling of alkali that chokes his lines when he’s about to get some people killed. Neither feeling is super fun when the job is to sit down and do slag in a room, so Jazz tells himself he’ll burn it off later on a good drive — Jazz gets a lot of mileage out of lying to himself.

Jazz has got himself at a sane-looking level of jittery, able to look over and wave a little in greeting when Blaster comes in. Blaster lifts a hand and waves back hesitantly, openly and warily inspecting Jazz.

There’s a long and funny tradition in intelligence, of ordering people to not know things or ask questions — also a less funny tradition of covertly removing inconvenient memories, but that slag’s dangerous for mechs with jobs like Blaster’s and based on the naked confusion Blaster’s giving off, it’s not in play here. Jazz has changed his paint and frame details a few times, he could probably sell being a brand new mech. Maybe. He smiles tentatively at Blaster. “So. What exactly have you been told?”

Voice or context or several vorns of encounters while being used as a convenient way to get data across the line, Blaster’s suspicion clicks over to some understanding and Jazz sees him force a neutral expression over anger. “Not to punch you,” Blaster says.

“Heh.” Jazz gives up looking like an innocent stranger. “I’m into it.” 

Blaster takes the interrogator's seat and dumps a treasure trove of signal hardware on the table out of reach, carefully keeping Jazz in sight. “And that you’re a liar.”

“Sure, who ain’t?” Jazz shrugs. He watches Blaster sullenly sort out and plug himself into hardware. Jazz should explain himself. That’d be the polite thing to do. Basic courtesy to a mech he’s got a dedicated drive’s worth of message history with — including almost a solid week after the firefight over Helex, when they were laid up in separate lonely medbays, talking music and wires and media.

But there’s really — he’s sincerely — Jazz grimaces, exhales. He reaches slowly and conspicuously for the secondary terminal. “You, uh, you know what this is about? You ain’t gonna, like, lose connection if I surprise you?”

Blaster puts down his work to glower at Jazz. “I can cut a connection in under a mitta and I can parse data on simultaneous channels,” he says, fast and harsh. “The moment you try to code in the amp noise, the moment you say something possibly sketchy, the moment you even _think_ about trying anything, this is fragging over.”

Jazz nods along, keeps appropriately cowed until Blaster’s done. “But you’re not gonna...” Jazz gestures vaguely, unable to come up with a reason he’s still talking.

Blaster keeps glaring as he finishes setting up the transception.

“Y’know, yeah, whatever.” Jazz fiddles numbers to his primary station. Host rotates, so he’s not entirely sure where he’s actually calling, but it’ll be preset to boost to public waves and, today, two-way to confirm transmission. “Here’s the address, route it through whatever, ain’t my base to hide.”

Blaster starts to make a face at the suggestion that he was looking for Jazz’s opinion on how to hide a signal — falls to a frown as he goes to set the destination. He looks back at Jazz — touch less hostile, replaced with bonus confusion. “Where’d you get this address?”

The keys take a little longer to set, awkward to enter at the twisty angle needed to hide from cameras. “And here’s my public creds.”

Jazz faces Blaster, puts on a crooked smile with as much amusement behind it as he can summon — none, as it happens.

The moment Blaster registers the credentials is obvious — expressive mech goes all stiff and confused, looks at the address, at the creds, back and forth.

It’s quiet enough to hurt, and their thing — Jazz and Blaster, together, ain’t supposed to be _quiet._ “We did always say,” Jazz says, trying for light and mostly hitting it, “it’d be epic when we finally met offline.”

Blaster’s dazed checking reshapes to include Jazz — he looks between Jazz and the damning creds, he looks — oh frag, he looks _betrayed,_ yeah, that tracks. Jazz did that.

Jazz exhales, and lets his smile wilt to something unhappy. ”I getting my phone call or not?” he asks.

Jazz can’t read if that’s anger or hurt or just confusion there, and Blaster probably ain’t much clearer. Blaster looks down and pays unnecessary attention to cords as he gets himself under control. He tosses an audio hookup across the table and flips the ready switch. “You know the beeps,” he says coolly.

Jazz nods and hooks himself in. He knows the beeps. He knows what he’s doing. 

-

With Blaster looking down, Jazz puts away his performance, stills his fidgeting, and silently watches the microphone and blinking lights. He sits like a mech condemned.

The equipment on the table beeps in a syncopated rhythm and Jazz abruptly sits up and grins. “Helllooo rustbucket, this is the ghost that lives in your engines! Hear my words and tremble!” There is (deliberately to prevent any pretense of legitimacy, 61%) no standard opening to Jazz’s coordination messages but there is a particular character.

_“Hey, message from Jazz. Go get—”_

Jazz times it well, cutting in even with the signal delay. “Woah now, don’t gotta bring names into this, line ain’t secure. Fragging — c’mon, never assume the line’s secure!”

_”Slag, we’re live? Sorry Jazz. Slag! Sorry Jaa— slag!”_

“For now, and ain’t that a miracle!” Jazz laughs, buries his face in his hands (careful of the lines and audio equipment). “S’fine on my end. I invited the snoops, and — guessin’ they can’t spoof quite that level of bad form — looks like we’re good. Y’all are booked for a move anyway, click me to the ring-wide?” He glances at Blaster, who ignores him.

 _”Aw, frag. Okay. You’re on at the—”_ Then a distinct click.

“Welcome welcome to Jazz radio, no not the music right now, the irregularly broadcast fun fact fest coming to you from an undisclosed and today surprisingly comfortable location somewhere, y’know, around — just listen a breem, ok? Actually, five — key updates here to the tune of five breems total.” Jazz grins and bobs as he talks (aspects that will impact sound) and taps on the table, clicking out a rhythm (to make it harder to cut and edit). Blaster signs for him to stop tapping and Jazz lifts his hands with a shrug and without a flicker in his speech.

“Host is going to start running relocation soon as the call’s done — fact, time for juuuust about everybody to move, yes, yes, it’s complicated and annoying, numbers and slag incoming, get your fragging codebooks out if you got ‘em — ignore anything in the Trippy Comets section though, there’s some slag — but we’ll get to that! Something a lil different top of the docket tonight.” Standard updates from Jazz put out on his public feed include coded names and locations, instructions in jargon explained or pre-arranged in more secure situations.

“Right, no, the big news, callin’ special, is we got a max level security breach goin’ on — code 453 on tag id 4. Y’know the drill, close your doors and change your locks, because we got a high level agent compromised. Now, in the interest of privacy and minimizing risk — just kidding, it’s me! That’s right, the inimitable Jazz just got a little more imitable by which I mean Jazz, yes that Jazz, don’t pretend you don’t know who I am, is fully compromised.”

::Um,:: Blaster pings Prowl. ::?:: 

Prowl holds very still, willing himself calm, forcing himself to think clearly. This was a possible development (11%). Jazz is not, precisely, lying, and depending on procedure, this may be minimally destructive. ::It’s fine,:: he tells Blaster.

Jazz is speaking quickly, ceaselessly. “What does ‘fully compromised’ mean? Well, all you dirty defectors and sympathizers, I will see you in the Pit because Jazz ain’t just slipped some data, he’s fraggin’ converted. By which I mean, and I do say this of my own free will — completely unrelated to the senate thugs sittin’ all around me with fully armed weapons — I have seen the light, and cast my spark in alongside the good mechs of the Autobot cause. Stop sending me your deets — actually just a blanket request guys seriously keep it to your fraggin’ cells — but assume anything you say can and will be used by heavily armored ex — the ex is important! — fascists listening in on this line.”

The datapad that Prowl is holding snaps. Mirage looks up at the sound, twitching in alarm. Blaster cannot see Prowl’s loss of composure, but he also looks to the observation window. 

::Aight, so I’m confused,:: Blaster says.

“Di-did he just defect?” Mirage asks, through minor vocal feedback.

"I'm an Autobot now!" Jazz says with a grin.

“No. Yes—no,” Prowl growls. Prowl’s datapad is broken beyond repair, so he indulges in crushing the broken edges together with enough force to split and mangle the layers of material in a series of sharp pops that is satisfying, if ultimately unhelpful. ::He just burned himself!::

Blaster looks uncertainly between Jazz and the window. ::Should I cut the line?::

“Post 3-echo-9-9, be ready for some yellows comin’ atcha down line 8-4-kilo-0, hold an extra 3-s for them and not a fragging groon longer,” Jazz yammers through actual routine coordination updates as if he has not just casually _detonated_ a major intelligence ring.

::No,:: Prowl says, leveling his tone to very false calm, ::that would make it worse at this point. Let him finish. Then get out. Room 04.::

Jazz runs through his codes and movement plans for his projected five breems. Prowl ignores the details, desperately running damage control analysis off _insufficient information_ and _outdated plans._

“Thank you, thank you all! Ask your friends from the Fiends List about all clear procedures and when in doubt, assume it ain’t. ‘S been a pleasure doing business — as always, do me a favor and don’t forget to stay alive — Jazz out!” Jazz cuts the transmission with a jaunty tap across the table. He sits back, and the wired mania instantly drops out of his posture. He draws himself in defensive and motionless. His grinning showman expression lingers.


	21. Chapter 21

Prowl slams awkwardly past Blaster on his way in, clumsy with fury, and strides directly to the interview table, anchored in towards Jazz. He would like to, to shake some sense into him but that would be ineffective, unethical, inappropriate. He forces himself to stop out of reach, wings flared, engine churning. “How many people did you just kill?”

“Hopin’ for none.” Jazz smiles, strained and vicious. He is huddled small and tight to (coiled, loaded against) his seat and his visor is too bright.

Prowl double-pings his inhibitor frequency and magnetizes Jazz into place at the nadir of his balance. “Hope is a negligent contingency,” he snarls. “If you think no one is going to _suffer_ for the chaos that you just—”

Jazz hisses at the sudden heavy restraint, turns the sound into a disdainful hum. “People are always suffering.”

“That doesn’t make it acceptable!” Prowl wheels on Jazz, taking an involuntary step towards him and slamming accidentally against the table with a scraping noise and a jolt of pain that Prowl ignores. “How many?” he asks again. “How many people were relying on your Neutral status for vouching or stability?”

Jazz vents slightly convulsively, takes almost an entire second to master a cringe and choke out a laugh at Prowl. “Ain’t really any of your—”

Tac net gets back to him and Prowl vents overheated air and catches himself on the table, weak with relief. “45. Lower bound at 4.” It is _too many,_ anything over zero is too many when it is so _stupidly unnecessary,_ but “You were _lucky,_ if the perimeter at Rodion were still down, it could have been thousands. Upper bound at... at...”

Jazz’s smile finally fails and he strains uselessly against restraint to level a contemptuous look at Prowl. “You don’t know the first fragging thing about my people.”

Prowl spares just a moment to sneer back. “You just _discarded_ them, they are no longer ‘your people.’” There is no _time_ for an argument, he needs, he needs to respond, to manage this.

It could still be thousands. Jazz runs a regular route through Trinity Station, everyone there needs immediate extraction; maintains at least one mercenary contact in sector 142 that might make an opportunistic attack on scarely-protected Etrias Major. Upper bound is too uncertain, responses are going to be too slow, information on Jazz’s contacts is far too limited. “Details!” Prowl demands. “I can do more with details.”

Jazz’s claws come out and dig where they are pinned (against a table leg, and against Jazz’s arm plating). He matches Prowl’s glare with his own. His voice is cold and firm. “You ain’t gonna know any fragging thing about my people.”

Prowl can only stare at him, expression uncontrolled, grasping and slipping, trying to find a lever, a gap, something to say or to do, while also running response plans, trying to prioritize, to salvage this.

Jazz stares back, unflinching. There is something glassy, dead in his expression and Prowl has more important problems.

Prowl cuts off a growl of frustration. He grabs and opens his working datapad with a little excess force. Jazz twitches in his chair, and Prowl pings his inhibition again as he takes a seat. “Who is contact id 839?” 

Jazz laughs, mutes it at Prowl’s furious rev. Fine. Fine, they will ground the entire crew of the Basilisk. 

“Or do I need to just kill the entire crew of the Basilisk?”

Jazz freezes. Very slowly, his claws dig gouges into the table and his own plating. “You won’t,” he says, expressionless.

 _Prowl_ laughs, a bark that twinges his vocalizer uncomfortably.

Jazz’s expression morphs slowly, strong and recognizable _hate_ and his jaw works before he opens his mouth. Prowl pings the inhibitor, fritzing Jazz’s incoming lie into static.

”Correct,” Prowl says. “I won’t. Obviously. That is easily inferred from my past behavior and the obvious alternative of simply rotating the crew.” Prowl files and submits a grounding order on the spot. Contact 839 is likely (73%) Lockdown, and Prowl calls him out in particular for a secure transfer. 

“So.” Prowl works to keep his tone carefully even. “Since you appear to be capable of basic reasoning. Am I forced to conclude that you are simply _bloodthirsty_ after all?” Prowl does not successfully keep his tone even.

Jazz does not move, does not waver. “I told ya,” he says lowly, “I ain’t giving you my network.”

Yes. Jazz has abruptly cut himself off from any resources or information that his agents and contacts would not be willing to give the Autobots. He has, at some cost, closed many venues of Autobot control over his network. Prowl sends an order to reposition around Etrias Major, sketches an extraction plan for Trinity Station, attempts to sublimate fury into administrative efficiency. “Are you happy with your choices, Con?”

Jazz flutters (flinches?) slightly, finally. He turns it into a shrug, small and twisted. “Eh. Made a lotta choices seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Prowl bites back a hiss. “That was a _bad idea._ Even given the inclination, it would have taken obvious time and effort for us to harm your contacts as much as you—” (just did.) He cuts himself off a little too late to avoid being antagonistic. He should not be attempting to multitask. He vents. “I told you,” Prowl says, “to verbalize your concerns before acting on them.”

“I did.” Jazz drops his head back, tries to press himself into a more casual pose. “For the depot,” he says, strangely and pointlessly. 

Prowl flicks a doorwing (both, thoughtlessly, earning a stab of pain from integrating repair) and frowns. “And with your... recent decision?”

Jazz laughs weakly, and finally finds an angle in the restraint that lets him pull himself back. “Sorry, forgot to ask,” he lies. “Are you going to exploit my position of trust with a technically neutral spy ring for tactical gain, or should I lock you out forever?”

“You are perfectly capable of subtle investigation, though given how absurdly bad you seem to be at inferring our strategy, it may indeed have been useless,” Prowl rejoins, in the tone of voice that used to regularly make people hit him.

“Hey, right there with you mech!” Jazz bares his teeth, and his tone is wrong. “I can’t tell what you guys are going to do, so I’mma be careful.”

Prowl submits a handful of one-off check-ins and rotations so that he does not snarl at Jazz again.

“I ain’t sorry I cut that chance,” Jazz says quietly. There is an odd tremor to his voice and, when Prowl looks up to check, in his frame. His visor is pointed off to the side, and he is slumped entirely into the awkward restraints. “You can’t get them anymore.” There is a distinct element of pure relief, here.

Prowl exvents. He has removed a temptation. At _unnecessary_ cost. He should not have done that. He should have said something. (Said what?) “This is—that was an extremely chaotic move.” Prowl should have seen this coming. Not this specifically, that would be insane, this was insane, but he really should have expected Jazz to be chaotic. 

“C’mon, Prowl,” Jazz says at the wall. “I was gonna do something.”

“Granted. I thought,” (64%) “you might call for rescue,” Prowl mutters, angry at himself. (Jazz laughs slightly, silently, without looking over.) Prowl had (stupidly, irresponsibly) thought that even if Jazz were misrepresenting the banality of his intended message, his ends would be at least _palatable._ “Not...”

“What the _Pit_ is your long term plan here?” Prowl asks. Jazz is a long, established identity, and (evidently) unpredictable. Prowl does not understand the strategy from here. “Are you defecting?”

Jazz twitches his visor back towards Prowl. “Huh? I—” Jazz looks away again. His vents hitch. “No, or, I dunno, I mean, I figured this — this would be when.” His voice cracks slightly, and something is wrong. 

“When what?” Prowl asks. There is nothing on the wall Jazz is staring towards. His tension builds enough to draw a crackle from the cuffs Prowl had perfunctorily put on him earlier, and Jazz visibly forces it down in a fine shudder.

Jazz gets himself under control again, stills again, looks at Prowl with only a tiny tilt. “What when what?”

Prowl’s optics narrow. He is not playing this game. “What behavioral threshold do you think you have crossed, and what do you think the consequences are going to be?”

Jazz vents deliberately, settles to stare at Prowl, cracks a little smile that is in no way convincing. “Ain’t really behavior, more — you got what you’re gonna get, riddle answered, best answers got, and — more about how useful—” Jazz invents harshly, looks away, and squirms in his limited motion.

Prowl tentatively identifies the odd glassy aspect of his demeanor as terror. A strong explanation for that mix of relief and dread makes itself known. (He sat like a mech condemned.)

“You think I am going to kill you now.” Prowl speaks without meaning to.

A slight vibration flickers across Jazz’s plating, brief, nearly indistinguishable from normal movement. “Hopin’ you won’t.” His voice is quiet, tremulous, and fades to a faint choking by the end. 

Jazz makes a face (shame?), swallows, forces himself to look at Prowl again. “Back when we met. You knew I was there to die, and you thought ‘it’s more ‘n cruel, it’s wasteful.’ You ain’t wasteful. I can’t—I couldn’t let you use my people, but—” He looks down. “I can still—killing me would be wasteful,” Jazz says (pleads; Jazz pleads for his life).

Prowl feels... he, he hurts, and he is unable to articulate more specifically. “It would also be wrong,” he says, and his voice has neither the anger he has been fighting nor the calm he has been seeking.

Jazz does not move. His expression is canted downward enough to be hidden, and he holds for several silent moments before he very slowly looks up. His smile looks fake, but at least he looks just a little less afraid. “Ain’t mattered so far.”

“You are misjudging this situation,” Prowl says, thankfully regaining some semblance of balance. “You’ve made a major mistake.” (He barrels through, pretends he never deciphered Jazz’s tension as it spikes again.) “Not in burning yourself, though that _was_ a mistake, but more generally, you’ve been mistaken. You are—”

Prowl laughs weakly (he thinks he may be infected by whatever unhappy humor afflicts Jazz). “Your official status was out of order," he says. "But, consider your intent to defect registered. Welcome to probation and evaluation, Jazz." Prowl marks the status on Jazz's file. "So far, you are doing poorly.”

Prowl takes a vent. “Broadcasting defection was an extremely alarming tactical decision and I do not endorse it. It has nothing to do with your usefulness, and everything to do with — you were wrong!” Unknown, unreachable agents and dependents, suddenly thrown into chaos, into genuine danger. It is not trivial and Prowl takes another vent cycle. 

Jazz watches him.

“I recognize the benevolent intent behind the decision, and believe the outcome is salvageable. You’re,” Prowl pauses until he is sure he will not accidentally growl. “I am not pleased, but you are not in trouble.”

Prowl leans forward sharply and Jazz flinches. 

Prowl eases the magnetic restraints to a setting more appropriate for a medium-light frame. “In a punitive sense. More abstractly, you appear to have a fatally miscalibrated set of expectations leading to a complete inability to predict our — my — standards and behaviors. You have been _repeatedly mistaken.”_

“You—” Prowl does not even know where to start. “When you broke into my medbay room.” Perhaps not the best example. Not a clear tactical parallel, likely only coming to mind in sentimental connection. “You tried to kill yourself,” Prowl says quietly.

Jazz shifts his weight slightly. “Wipe my processor,” he says, no louder. “Ain’t the same thing.”

Prowl narrows his optics. “It would have been—” tragic “—unnecessarily drastic.”

Jazz snorts. “Thought exercise, try my perspective for a breem. No. It would have been worth it.” He shrugs. “You’re right though, failing ended up alright. This is better.”

“You were lucky Red Alert was there! You could have succeeded! You—” Prowl takes another 2 nanos to gather himself again. “We are not—I am not going—” no, and _damn_ Jazz for pressing the difference “— I do not want to hurt you.”

Jazz eases up on his studied insouciance, carefully adjusts plating previously pinned uncomfortably. He exvents softly. “Nothing personal Prowler. Paranoia’s what’s kept me up so far.”

“And I’m glad it has.” Prowl finds the urge to _shake him_ has returned, and he restrains it to a severe look. “But please consider what to do next with what it has gotten you. You have been repeatedly mistaken, to increasingly drastic consequences. It is _lucky_ that you have avoided real harm before this point. At what point are you going to reassess your obviously flawed underlying assumptions? You are not stupid. You need to _think.”_

Jazz shrinks back slightly, the motion tiny enough that Prowl would have missed it were he not so intently focused. Then Jazz fidgets, awkwardly deliberate at first as he recovers his standard careless demeanor. “This your way of claiming,” he scoffs, “that you ain’t gonna try to torture those depot coordinates and contacts out of me?”

It is not funny. Prowl suppresses his frown as he further demagnetizes Jazz’s restraints and passes across a flimsy and light pen. 

Jazz chuckles to himself, though it quickly fades to nothing as he writes (two neat lines, verifiable missing pieces to slot into a ready mission). “You don’t know everything, Prowler,” he says. It is less angry than it might be. “I’m lucky, yeah — I also know what I’m doing. It weren’t _safe,_ pulling a defector code on myself, but ain’t really much worse than usual.” 

He spins the light pen idly and presses it back to the sheet. “‘Cept maybe for Diver and co on Trinity. And Halfstep might wanna...” Jazz hums to himself and continues writing underneath the codes for the depot.

Prowl is posed working on his datapad. He does not dare move.

“And, yeah. I’m not, y’know.”

Prowl frowns. Not what? “Thinking?”

Jazz snorts without looking up from his writing. “Happy with—am I happy with my choices?” He says it with false brightness. “Ain’t no one knows exactly how things gonna turn out. But the way my choices keep going?” 

Jazz laughs and shakes his head. “Naw, mech! It’s a nightmare I’m still tryna survive.”

Prowl looks up from his datapad. Jazz does not (refuses to meet his gaze). “You have made some remarkable decisions,” Prowl says, unsure whether he means it as reassurance. “And more than a few terrible ones.”

“Not to belabor the point, but,” Prowl flicks his wing as he rapidly enters updates into his datapad, “do better.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really bad at estimating wordcounts when I outline
> 
> hi

Jazz ain’t usually one to sit and brood on his terrible — not that terrible — sure, not _good_ but Prowl’s awfully fraggin’ _judgey_ — decisions. They leave him in room 02 without much else to do for a while. Jazz puts it down as equal parts Prowl being slagged off at him and Prowl being busy trying to run damage control — Prowl trying to save some lives.

Fine. Fine, maybe Jazz has been fragged by his instincts a few times lately. He’s maybe been surprised and confused way more than he could be. He’s — it’s better to be too cautious than too comfortable — it’s _best_ to be fragging _correct_. He’s caught and he’s hurt and inhibited — not as hurt or inhibited or restricted as he could — should — be and that makes it worse because he doesn’t know what’s happening and Jazz has never been a fragger for order, but he’s — he’s _lost_ and it’s _scary_.

Jazz drops his helm against the cool table. The door’s been left ajar — might be they’re inviting him to leave or that they’re letting him know they’re watching or might be nothing at all. He’s magged to the fragging chair. Not magged so heavily it hurts, anymore. He rests weight against the magnetic field a little. He can’t properly sleep or settle here — he also doesn’t really have anywhere better to be, and he’s — he’s fine here, for a while. 

After everything, he kinda expected — he don’t know what he expected. He knew that — knew he didn’t know what came next. Jazz breathes, slow, even. Left alone, apparently. Magged to the chair, free to fidget pointlessly. He taps a little rhythm against his chair that sounds weak and tinny in the room.

He ain’t stupid. More than that, Jazz has fragging excellent instincts for what to do, who to trust, how to get trusted, and he knows it. He’s also fragging spiralling wildly and fumbling and losing track of what he’s trying to do and what anyone around him is trying to do. He’s... maybe been misreading the situation for a bit.

Life is fragging wild and he has no control. He knew that. He can work with that. Jazz stretches forward more comfortably — careful of the achy bit in his side — and finds a nice spot on the table, a spot that takes his tapping and gives an almost decent sound. Jaunty metallic tapping improves the oppressive air.

It ain’t quite hitting the room right. Hah. Jazz hums a little to himself and feels it around the room. Yeah. 

Barely noticeable. Disruptor fields can handle all kinds of slag, and the mech using it’s pretty good. If he stuck a bit closer to the back wall, Jazz wouldn’t be able to find him at all.

Invisible mech watches for a while, and Jazz lets him for a while. Eventually, Jazz sighs. “I know I’m a categorically entertaining mech,” he drawls, rolling and lifting his head to look towards the right spot, “but if you do get bored, I will take requests.”

Jazz noodles a few more tones and beats to himself, not overly fussed about the company. After a few kliks, the disruptor field fades down gradually and reveals a slightly dinged up elegant blue and white mech, tall, light grounder frame. He’s standing in a well-staged bored stance, and he’s got a vague unfocused-disinterested expression that suggests either processor integration injury or extremely high-class manners. 

With the worn remnants of insignia on the edges of his plate and the pretty custom design in his frame — yeah, Jazz has an actual fragging noble checking in here. That’s funny! Jazz grins and flicks him a little wave that mostly gets throttled by magnetization. Last Jazz saw this guy, they were trying to stab each other while Jazz bolted like a panicking rat on the Steel Promise. Ah, s’been a time, since.

“What gave me away?” now-visible mech asks.

Jazz hums thoughtfully and gives up his tapping to prop himself on the table facing the mech. “Sorry, don’t know that song. Hate to disappoint,” he says with an apologetic smile and shrug. “What brings you to my show?”

Visible mech tilts his head curiously at Jazz. “Why are you still here?” 

He’s magged down, if he wants to be flip about it. Jazz shrugs. “Not meant to go anywhere without clearing it first.”

“You are technically allowed to return to your cell if left unattended without instruction.” Technically, _required to_ , and there’s a no-win situation in there if someone wants it. The mech favors him with a top notch pretty lying smile. “Prowl gave over 90% that you would slip back to your, your quarters,” he says. “I was curious as to how you would go about it.”

Prowl’s wrong, or someone’s lying. There’s risking getting shot, and then there’s asking to get shot and Jazz, believe it or not, doesn’t want to get fragging killed. Jazz smiles back at the mech. “I’m sorta feeling this room actually. Think I could get a bunk reassignment?”

Jazz clicks the room and tentatively marks this guy down as the mid-frame who’s been lurking around the observation rooms. Spy — if the invisibility trick didn’t tick that box already. 

Spymech’s studying him and trying to pass it off as an idle curiosity. Maybe some professional interest, trying to get some kind of read on Jazz. He’s probably going to be running the depot mission — probably looking for some soft sense of _trustworthiness._

Jazz can’t think of anything useful to give. “Hypothetically, though.” He squirms a little to tap at a seam running across his shoulder. “‘Spose I could force an extension here that’d give me the reach to fiddle with the controls, assuming this is a classic Rodion-style 4W setup.” Jazz shrugs and looks over the mech again thoughtfully. “Ain’t super shareable. On your build it’d probably be easier to—oh hold up a klik. You a Towers mech, aintcha?”

The noble — ex-noble, in most of the ways that matter, these days — stiffens, maybe. He’s unfamiliar and hard to read but it’s the normal enough response. Towers ain’t been popular just about anywhere for a long time, and that slag can get intense, especially with Cons. Which is kinda the source of a backburner annoyance Jazz’s had for a while. “May I practice my accent with you?” Jazz asks, in what he’s only mostly sure isn’t a dumb and stilted tone.

The mech maybe shifts his weight. “Par-pardon?”

“Towers aristo is my weakest show,” Jazz gripes, “fraggin’ never get to practice.” He sits up and grins at the mech. “Wait, okay, okay.” Jazz casts back to Diaphone when you got him the perfect level of drunk, leans back in the chair he’s magged to like it should be thanking him for the honor, and simpers at the other mech like Jazz is bored but too polite to make a fuss of it. “Yes, you are a Valence Tower mech if ever I saw one.”

The aristo — and that ain’t slag that really can go away — goes still and Jazz checks close for signs he’s managed to slag him off. Then he smiles, like Jazz has embarrassed himself but he’s too polite to make a fuss of it. “Rather presumptive, East Quad.”

Yeah, Diaphone was East Quad! Fragging mess of a mech with issues to spare, but also a dear old friend Jazz didn’t expect to get to remember just now. Jazz’s laugh is a little too bright and real for a moment, before he matches it back to Di’s cutesy proper chuckle as he falls into the game. “The fact is, who but a Valence would have any interest in a positively unsophisticated Rodion 4W bypass?”

The noble’s name is Mirage, and it turns out he’s got a _brilliant_ sense of humor and is surprisingly open to being friendly — feels a touch like he’s starved for a little bit of silly chat, and ain’t that relatable? Special Ops for sure, got that familiar vein of trained irreverence that Jazz didn’t realize he’s kinda missed. “— No, no, last I saw Darkmount the natives were frightfully fixed on prying off my plating, if you can believe it.”

“Oh yes, a local tradition! Have you seen the effigies they construct? Delightfully ghastly.” Jazz maybe gets a little distracted enjoying the conversation — nah, yeah, it’s perfect for what he wants, which is to get Mirage to stay about a breem longer than he should, swapping tired espionage jokes, Towers characters, and shop talk. 

“The classics are so for a reason after all. No one has designed a better sensor since the J6, and I’m sure you’ll be satisfied with your monitoring. Do let me know if you find it lacking.”

“Better, no, but more reliable?” Jazz baits through Mirage’s moves to wrap the conversation, and Mirage doesn’t really resist. 

Eventually though—Mirage has got places to be and Jazz isn’t actually giving useful intel.

“Well, as much of a delight as it may have been,” Mirage says with a neat nod towards the door.

“Yeah.” Jazz grins and nods back at him, and waits until he’s started to go. “Oh, wait a sec?”

Mirage pauses, losing his chance to just pretend he didn’t hear. Sucker. 

“Can I get cleared to go somewhere, rules-friendly-like?” Jazz drops, like he ain’t aware that Mirage needs to go do mission prep asap. 

By the lingering sting and the growing ache around his lower left side, Jazz is pretty sure the broken baffle has ripped something.

“Hm.” Mirage strolls back to the interrogation table and releases the magnetization. “I’ll escort you back to your quarters.” Jazz’s got an assigned cell on base — intact walls, honestly good enough digs that Smokescreen’s got soldiers bunking in the cell block as overflow barracks.

Jazz picks himself up slow and careful — like he’s trying to look deferential, and it’s a lucky bonus if he’s also trying to keep from jostling the loose slag in his chassis. He leers a little and winks at Mirage. 

“Sorry, maybe another night? I actually...” Jazz manages to tense and flex his internal hydraulics into something that feels okay. “I gotta go by the medbay.” Jazz is allowed movement with either escort or pre-clearance, and what he wants is pre-clearance. If he’s timed it right, Mirage has better things to do right now than escort.

Mirage steps back and looks him over with a frown, suddenly on alert for a ruse.

“Baffle twinge,” Jazz says. Any attention is bad attention right now, but he’s not sure how he’s gonna do if Mirage decides to leave him alone again. “I think I might be bleeding internally?” 

A different tune of alarmed comes into Mirage’s expression and he narrows his optics at Jazz as he comms back and forth with someone. Finally, he nods. “Come with me.”

Jazz needs to go find a medical shim and steal some patches. He doesn’t need an Autobot standing over his shoulder for it, but he can live with that if he’s gotta. He follows Mirage out into the atrium, doesn’t resist as Mirage stops, waves at a camera, and peels the mesh covering off Jazz’s brand. Alright, alright, rules-friendly. 

“For security, you’ll need to leave this uncovered,” Mirage informs him, a little defensively. Yeah, Jazz read the flimsies. He’s theoretically a — _frag_ — a defector, but with base a mess and coordination datanets spotty, they’re defaulting to a security system where you spot the maybe-Con as the one with the Con brand on his chest. 

“Yeah, sure thing.” Jazz can do a microtransformation to hide his badge, usually. It’s blocked right now by some slag Ratchet put in him, so he’ll, well... he’ll be checking some of his basic assumptions. Jazz flashes an ‘all good’ gesture at the same camera Mirage waved to and steps along with a little bounce to his step that hides how he’s bracing his side.

The path to medbay is rough. The direct route is collapsed, and the route they take has a spot with a twelve met gap in the floor precariously bridged over with a bit of metal clearly pried off the wall nearby. 

“Who did you know in Valence?” Mirage asks, quiet, without any of the overblown pomposity they’d been playing at. 

Jazz hums. “No one in particular. Did some work at the Stellar for a bit, so I mostly know lots about who in House Pel could hold their engex.”

Mirage nods. “Yttria Pel?”

Jazz cackles and nods. “Fragging Yttria!” He pokes the conversation towards the safety of dead people, updating ancient gossip on who got high with who where and when.

Proximity to medbay gets marked by the appearance of injured mechs kicked out to the hallways. Mirage draws in, cuts the conversation, and ups the pace as they get to populated halls. Actually, maybe pushing Mirage into a hurry wasn’t the greatest idea. Jazz stumbles a bit to keep up with a brisk walking pace, and catches the edge of a little appraising glance from Mirage. 

They get looks. Jazz’s ‘Con infantry, probationary defector’ status is open knowledge, as is the frequency and code for his inhibitor set. 

The glares start settling, and Jazz is grateful for his escort as he limps in close to Mirage and tries to look non-threatening. Then Mirage goes a little extra quiet and stiffens against the glaring and Jazz’s sense of security withers. Towers ain’t been popular anywhere for a long time.

They make it to a hallway narrowed by rubble, with a few partially-repaired mechs sitting on heaps of broken building or bickering. ‘Bout a half dozen clearing out slag, two or three sitting and waiting for something, a mini hauling at and serving as a crutch for a heavily-damaged mech trying to make it down the hall. Mirage and Jazz have to step close enough to feel the heat to get by, and Jazz nods vaguely as they go, trying to avoid provoking either by ignoring or engaging.

There’s enough muttering to set off flags, and Jazz ain’t entirely surprised when someone — the mini and his friend — Cliffjumper and Trailbreaker — when Cliffjumper shoves out from under Trailbreaker and steps in to cut off the path.

Jazz sticks behind Mirage. Cliffjumper’s engine growls steadily. “Cells are the other way.”

“He is entitled to medical attention.” Mirage sounds impressively aloof.

“Not when there isn’t enough medical attention for all the people already dying of fragging Con tricks!” Cliffjumper steps in closer, engine growling almost enough to drown out the click and whirr of combat systems coming up, and Jazz sweeps an automatic double-check of the hall.

That’s Gears and Brawn sitting on the crates, watching, waiting, weapons nearby. Warpath, Jolt, Chambion, Brainstorm, glancing over enough they’re obviously aware, still trying to decide how much they’re ready to be a part of things. Trailbreaker’s leaned against the wall where Cliff dumped him, no shape to be actually leaving medbay, probably trying for a PT walk, looks faintly concerned about the situation. 

When he feels for it, Jazz finds that he’s low on patience. “Did you just ditch your injured friend to come start a fight?” Jazz asks, echoing some of the cold contempt he’s gettin’ real familiar with off Prowl.

Mirage shoots him a quick warning look and takes a step between Jazz and Cliffjumper. “Go back to what you were doing, Cliffjumper.”

“Or what, fragging Con lover?” Cliffjumper says, leaning in distinctly threatening at Mirage. Mirage tenses in an absolutely tiny way that Jazz immediately and confidently places as _nervous_ and Jazz locks down his grip on his side and steps to ready for a fight.

“Wait, Cliff, I think I know him!” Trailbreaker says, taking an unsteady step towards them, mostly braced on the wall. 

Oh frag, that could be inconvenient. Does Prowl know? TB’s too friendly, he’s a fragging security ri—

“He did my first aid,” Trailbreaker says. 

Huh? Jazz lets his attention flick a little towards Trailbreaker without losing his ready stance. TB’s been hit hard by melt damage, was probably in the group that tripped the thermyte back when Ratchet pressed him into medical assistance. It makes sense — Jazz doesn’t remember patching him — Jazz had some other slag on his mind.

“Thank you. Y-uh, you’re a Con, huh?” TB says with another obviously painful step that brings him close enough that Jazz can tell he’s gonna make a grab for Cliffjumper. Jazz resists a reflex to tell him to shove off — he shouldn’t be slagging trying to walk on his own — he ain’t seeing how mad Cliffjumper is over here and he shouldn’t have said any of that last bit.

Cliffjumper snarls, jerks his glare from Mirage over to Jazz, and puffs up. He shakes off Trailbreaker’s peacemaking without looking back. “What the frag ever! How stupid is this? He was _just_ trying to kill us, but he fails and gets left behind, and suddenly we’re all pretending he’s not gonna try again? We’re all supposed to be grateful that after we all got _fragged_ by a firetrap _his people_ left behind he did a little patching — didn’t even cost him anything! Saving his own plating is all, and I’m _not_ dumb enough to trust him.”

Cliffjumper spins to yell at Jazz, the room at large, and Mirage — mostly going in for Mirage, but he edges in closer to Jazz as he rants. Cliffjumper — frag him, he’s a fragging idiot. He’s kinda _right_ , which is almost funny, except Mirage is already barely in mission shape, and TB — who Jazz apparently put effort into fixing like a day ago — is about to catch an accidental elbow to the welds and Jazz also happens to be kinda _tetchy_ at this particular moment.

“Hey, hey, no worries.” Jazz laughs, steps a little more clear of Mirage, dips a little to engage Cliffjumper. “I get it. Having a Con like me on base is scary!”

Cliffjumper revs and springs for Jazz with an incoherent shout. Jazz bobs easily and lets Cliffjumper’s clumsy grab slip off him. Mirage spins and shoves in, grabs Cliffjumper with a loose grip that says Mirage really doesn’t know how to de-escalate. Cliffjumper gives up on flailing for Jazz and shifts to — to grabbing his _slagging gun,_ frag, frag — “You fragger, I’m not scared, ‘cept that you’ll be _pathetic_ when I get my hands—”

“Cliffjumper, stand—” Mirage tries to wrestle Cliffjumper back and gets — oh there’s the accidental elbow, but it’s to Mirage’s chin and it actually doesn’t look that accidental. The whole hallway seems to ripple a little and that’s people standing up and stepping in or bolting, Warpath and Chambion exiting to a side hall, Gears and Brawn closest and coming in.

Jazz finds wall at his back and gets some leverage off it as he leans to recapture Cliffjumper’s attention. “What then... ah, angry? Oh, fraggin’ Bots — you had a friend in that firetrap?” Jazz laughs like it’s funny, and successfully gets Cliffjumper focused back on him and tips him into angry enough to punch instead of shoot which is perfect.

Unexpectedly, Gears dives in from the side swinging. Jazz barely manages a dodge — fragging _whoops_ he’s in a brawl now, whole knot of mechs fragged off and grabbing at each other in simple chaos — ducks and redirects a shove more on reflex. Jazz balances on an edge of uncertainty for a moment, laughs as he tips over. 

Maybe he stepped dumb here, but whatever else — parole violation, what the frag — Jazz knows how to be in a fight — it feels good to know how to be for a klik or two — and he punches Cliffjumper just hard enough to make him stumble, shoves Mirage to win himself a little more space for a last-nano hop over a low kick, catches and yanks the offending leg to throw the attached mech off balance into — is that _fragging_ Trailbreaker, is he _trying_ to get hit, _why_ the frag, the fragger’s mostly delicate solder and Jazz barely twists to avoid seriously injuring him.

Something sharp slips in his side and Jazz grimaces through the pain, rides the edge to find the familiar rhythm that lets him slip out from the mech trying to grab him, dance under a punch, catch a punch he can’t dodge, grab and spin a clumsy mini to toss him back into the fragging fray with a laugh — hah, sure, this is the right kind of stupid ending, endless sparkbeats of wild scuffle — honestly, longer than expected before finally — finally, inhibitors snap to life and Jazz numbs out and falls hard.

Weight on top of him shoves him down and for a klik Jazz doesn’t have the motor control to protect his throbbing side and the pain grounds him back. Soon as he can, Jazz jerks a clumsy defense, braces his bad side against a wall before Cliffjumper —

“Don’t you fragging dare!” 

Jazz knows that voice. Frag. Cliffjumper does too, stops mid-attack.

“You know how that pulse works, Cliff, you gonna hit a mech who can’t hit back?” 

“I didn’t ask you to drop him.” Cliffjumper’s expression stays in a snarl, slagged off and fixed on Jazz. He keeps his punch ready, but steps his weight slightly off Jazz. “Get up,” he says. “C’mon. Hit back.”

Jazz has some strength back, enough leverage to kick up and hit back hard. He looks away and drops his helm against the wall. “Eh,” Jazz mutters. He’d kinda been down for a good fight a second ago. His side hurts. 

Cliffjumper growls. Jazz finds he doesn’t really care.

“Fragging shoo, Cliffjumper. All y’all — shoo, shoo!” Ironhide clanks through the narrow hallway and Cliffjumper — everybody intact enough to move on their own power — shoos. 

He steps heavily to a stop in front of Jazz. Jazz doesn’t fragging move. Last Jazz got a good look at Ironhide, he was slagged off at him. He peeks a look from under his visor. Ironhide is glaring down at Jazz with a deep frown. Jazz _doesn’t fragging move._

“Fragging again?” Ironhide asks. Yep, Jazz is real fraggin’ punchable, s’part of why Ricochet’s much more boring.

“What happened?” Hound asks. Oh, Hound’s here, too. Jazz can’t quite see without moving, but sounds like he’s talking to Mirage.

“Mirage, you and Hound got a place to be, dontcha?” Ironhide says without looking away from Jazz. 

Jazz turns enough to catch Mirage’s nod, suddenly and forcefully grounded back to depot negotiations, coolant, and fragging radio broadcasts. “Mirage,” he says without thinking.

Everyone looks at him. “You’re...” Jazz pauses, belatedly unsure how it’ll be taken — Mirage is about to run a mission on his intel, and it’s just habit, just how he likes to close assignment briefings, but he’s not in his habitual place, but too late to stay quiet now. “Try to stay alive, yeah?”

Mirage looks him over for a long moment. “If you say so,” he says, then he leaves with Hound.

Ironhide makes a face that leads into him studying Jazz way too carefully, and Jazz looks back down again. It’s real fragging quiet in the hall, and Jazz knows he’s in some kind of trouble but he’s — again — fragging off the map. He just waits.

“Con, up.”

Jazz nods to let him know he ain’t being defiant as he slowly gets his balance together and claws himself up to standing against the wall.

“You alright?” Ironhide asks, and Jazz wonders if he could have gotten away with the crowd getting kicked out of the hall. Not physically — he’s still weak as frag — but Ironhide keeps glancing around and checking something internal like he’s got somewhere else to be.

“Yes sir,” Jazz says. There’s probably a right thing to do here — a thank you, an apology, fight or flee, or — but Jazz has no idea what it is. He keeps his gaze down, his peripheral attention on Ironhide, and inches himself away quickly as he can without being completely obvious about it. 

“Easy. It’s just me.” Ironhide casually steps in to close the distance between them. Jazz gives up on a getaway. 

“Yes sir.” Jazz watches warily as Ironhide pauses and glances around the hallway. Hasn’t stopped being a narrow mess of rubble, close enough to medbay overflow that mechs are audible walking and groaning and chatting past the far corner. Trailbreaker is also still here, hobbling away slowly along the wall with an uncomfortable glance back towards them. 

Ironhide snags Jazz by the shoulder with a slight groan of annoyance. “C’mon, over here a sec.”

Jazz forces his plating down and locks his fans at a setting that won’t make him dizzy. He stumbles and lets Ironhide drag him back and around a corner into a more discreet patch — through a door that opens and closes with a whine of misaligned bearing, to a hallway that’s completely collapsed a few steps in. Least this won’t be publicly humiliating, Jazz appreciates. He keeps his posture submissive and angles best he can to keep his bad side back. 

Ironhide looms between Jazz and the door — optics a bit considering, tight with some kind of conflict. Not a promising expression for a physical mech with a short temper. 

Jazz is ready and manages to keep himself steady when Ironhide makes a fist and steps in fast — curls slightly and braces himself against the wall in a mostly-hopeless bid to protect his processor, his side, his optics, his bad arm in that order of priority.

He’s ready for — faintest whistle of wind and click of metal moving close, fist thrown close enough for Jazz to feel the disturbed air currents — no impact. Ironhide pulls the punch short, lands his other hand on the wall behind Jazz with a heavy slam to keep his balance, doesn’t even brush Jazz. He’s _fragging_ with him, and Jazz stashes useless _anger_.

The moment stretches too long — Jazz refuses to look up, ready for the cheap shot — until there’s a scuff and shift of air that feels suspiciously like Ironhide backing off. 

“What the frag?” Ironhide says. His voice is strangely soft and comes from far enough away for Jazz to chance a glance up — oddly, Ironhide’s got none of the expected amusement at making someone cower.

“I saw that slag in the hall. They couldn’t touch you.” Ironhide looks annoyed and lightweight suspicious, arms crossed, plating flared. “It’s gotta be taking you special effort _not_ to just frelling dodge here.”

Well, yeah. Jazz’s own confused disbelief makes him miss a beat or two staring at Ironhide, not sure if he’s — insulted that Jazz isn’t putting up more of a fight — slagged that Jazz didn’t let Gears trip him — realizing Jazz downplays his hand-to-hand, frag, that could be bad — just... confused? Where the frag are their wires getting crossed here?

“You seriously just gonna let me hit you?”

Jazz jerks his gaze back down and tries a little cautious shrug. If Ironhide wants to hurt him — for picking fights, for being a Con, or just for fun, Ironhide’s gonna hurt him. Scrap, bright side, Jazz already needs to deal with what is now definitely a serious internal injury, and if Ironhide makes enough of a mess, it’s gonna be way easier to talk his way into medbay. Jazz doesn’t know — Jazz doesn’t know they’ll put him back together, but Jazz doesn’t know anything right now, and that’s what he’s got.

“Hey,” Ironhide says, and Jazz’s vents hitch a little. “Explain.”

Explain — how the frag the two of them got here and what the frag is meant to happen next, is how Jazz is hearing that question. He ain’t fragging able to do that, so he goes with something basic that he thinks won’t give much away and just hopes he’s not sounding condescending. “Cliffjumper ain’t...”

Jazz shrugs. “Some people you can — should — fight back, or,” Jazz peeks up — he’s grasping for some kind of read, and Ironhide’s staring at him like he wants optic contact anyway. “It’s just a, a line you gotta figure out, right? I know I — I’m kinda a fragger, ain’t gonna be able to hide that.” Jazz — Ricochet — can keep his fragging head down, but the price and payout for doing that fluctuates fragging wildly. For fragging with people like Cliffjumper. With people like Ironhide, for a time like now, if the price is just dents and dignity — Jazz ain’t what he used to be. He ducks his head. “But I really ain’t tryna start trouble.”

A shift rolls in Ironhide’s engine — there’s that uptick in irritation that Jazz has been watching for, but who the frag knows what caused it, nothing anyone does around here makes any fragging sense at all. “You,” Ironhide growls, “are either lying, or complete slag at not starting trouble.”

Ironhide leans in and down — catches optic contact again, rumbles a low hum, and Jazz double-checks how he’s braced against the wall. “You been trouble,” Ironhide says, “since you went way the frag off script, busted out an enemy officer, and decided to just keep on piling on lies and tricks to keep on top of the absolute clusterfrag you built for yourself.”

He ain’t wrong. Jazz sighs, and it’s still weird not having to bypass stealth mods for it to be audible. “Cost of doing business. Just meant to do a fun and easy rescue mission.” Whatever else, Jazz can’t really regret going for the slagging ship.

Ironhide steps in, reclaims the space he’d backed off before and Jazz is pretty sure it’s not even deliberate, just a Bot who owns the space around him and is pushing for Jazz’s undivided focus. He fragging has it. “All of this slag, because you thought it would be ‘fun and easy’ to maybe help some fragging neutrals.”

Jazz has already had this fragging conversation and he’s fragging sick of it and if Ironhide’s gonna do something he wants him to do it already. He meets Ironhide’s scrutiny with a flicker of his own annoyance. “Yeah. 541 people, on a ship _so close_ to a safe lane.”

Ironhide is right in his fragging face again. “You don’t even know them. Strangers, who got themselves in trouble trying to run off on their own in the middle of a war.”

Jazz grins. “Oh frag off.” If he’s gonna get punched, he’s gonna get punched smiling. “Someone knows them, what’s it matter who?”

Ironhide scowls and his engine turns, close enough for Jazz to feel the vibration. “I do.”

Ironhide takes a step back again, and Jazz’s tenuous grasp on what’s happening snaps and he slips between the sudden lack of threat and trying to figure out what Ironhide just meant.

“A dozen of my old unit was on that ship,” Ironhide says, briefly unpinning Jazz from his staring. “Good people. Friends of mine.”

Jazz is back on his old strategy of holding very fragging still.

Ironhide fixes him with his overly-aggressive evaluating look again. “All the sketchy spy slag you do,” he says. “It ain’t a fragging game. It’s real people, got it?”

Part of Jazz flares angry again because yeah, he fragging knows, but — or, he thought he did, but, it’s — Jazz doesn’t know any fragging thing, after all, and it’s been a fragging day, and all he can say is, “Understood sir.”

“Keep it in mind, and we’ll be good.” Ironhide sighs deeply. He rubs a hand over his face without taking his optics fully off Jazz.

“And that slag with Cliffjumper. Try not to get in fights. Of course. If that happens again...” Ironhide glances at the door and checks around their tiny fragging hallway like there might be someone hiding in the rubble.

Ironhide glares — looks, just looks, really, ain’t his fault his face is always so angry, maybe — at Jazz again. He leans in again, to drop to a whisper. “Just a little.” Ironhide glances at the door again, and leans in even further. “A little tiny bit, okay?” He holds a hand up with thumb and forefinger held apart to indicate how — very — little.

Jazz nods numbly.

Ironhide nods back, fragging inches away. “If that slag happens again, you gotta hit Cliffjumper just a little, tiny, bit harder, or he’s never gonna fragging learn.”

Jazz — Jazz is smart, quick and adaptable, and fragging nothing can throw him for a loop — that’s meant to be his fragging thing. He’s blinking like he’s glitching out and still catching up on what the actual frag as Ironhide leans back, steps back with a concluding nod.

Ironhide looks slightly distracted as he comms and takes a step towards the door, focused enough to keep from letting Jazz get behind him.

Jazz ain’t totally sure — yeah, so long ‘quick and adaptable’ Jazz’s new thing is ‘ain’t totally sure’ — but it feels a little like he can steal for the door, so he does.

Ironhide hisses a little and Jazz stops dead.

“Now,” Ironhide says, sweeping an assessment over Jazz. “Why the frag are you limping like you’re half slagged?”

Yeah, good reminder! Jazz is in so much pain right now. He shrugs — mostly on his right, better, side. “I think I got a loose baffle, sir. It’s caught kinda funny — maybe an eighth slagged?”

Ironhide squints at Jazz. ”You—” He cuts himself off with a sudden coughing noise and straightens alarmingly.

Jazz hides a hop-step towards the door inside a flinch. He doesn’t have the clearance level to swipe through it — it’ll open if he pries the safety seam hard enough and that won’t even be unauthorized access to an electronic system. “I was going to medbay sir.”

Ironhide hisses again and reaches past him to swipe the door, which squeals again as it judders open. “Say slag earlier!” he says, balance wobbling for a second as he stops himself from grabbing Jazz to physically manhandle him along again. He studies Jazz as he limps out, and groans as he checks between Jazz and something on a wall — no, checks in the direction of wherever he’s supposed to be. “No one has time to nursemaid you!”

“Sorry, sir.” They are so fragging close to medbay.

Ironhide starts to offer a supporting arm and, at Jazz’s hesitation, just grabs his shoulder and levers at him in a way that actually takes a lot of the painful weight off Jazz’s bad side. It’s pretty fragging unwieldy though, and Jazz is uncomfortably aware of Ironhide’s antsy comming as they shuffle around the corner. “I can go on my own,” Jazz offers. 

“Security, m—” 

They walk past a heap of rubble and suddenly get a clear view of the mech lurking right fragging there. Trailbreaker twitches a little in surprise before he smiles and lifts a hand in greeting. What the frag is TB still doing out here, he’s — he’s actually fragging leaking somewhere, there’s a little gleam of energon pooling at his pede.

“What the frag are you still doing out here?” Ironhide asks. He looks between Jazz and Trailbreaker, exasperation edging a little into panic. 

“My leg stopped responding,” Trailbreaker says with an embarrassed shrug and a nod at his leg.

“Fragging comm for help!” Ironhide groans.

Trailbreaker shrugs in a motion that looks fragging uncomfortable with how it catches on about a hundred patches. “Everyone’s busy, and I’m okay sitting out here for a bit.”

“You kinda ain’t!” Jazz laughs. “C’mon, I can walk you.”

Ironhide lets go of Jazz enough to get a proper narrowed look pointed at him. 

Jazz grins. “You can’t carry both of us, and we got a fully walking mech between us. He can security escort me, and I can medbay buddy him, and you can get back to” — between Ironhide’s qualifications, showing up, the paging, the state of base, hm, “running 604 responses.”

The grip on Jazz’s shoulder comes right back and alarm flares in Ironhide’s expression. 

“Wait, seriously?” Jazz was sort of joking. He laughs. “Frag, hah, wow, Red Alert must be burnin’ up your comm!”

Ironhide growls, and Jazz remembers that no matter how frazzled he’s getting, he’s actually got to focus — wipes the smile and draws himself politely in again.

“Works for me,” Trailbreaker says. “I kinda wanted to talk to him, anyway.”

It’s Jazz’s turn to prickle a little with wariness, then. Ironhide lets go of him. “You got his ping?” he asks, scanning over the pair of them.

Jazz hastily leans on rubble to avoid falling to the ground when Trailbreaker looks over and nods. TB smiles and shoots Ironhide a thumbs up. No one actually pings Jazz — lets them get straight to figuring out how to lean on each other. Trailbreaker’s heavy and worse off, so it’s pretty fragging lucky that Jazz ends up able to notch against him in comfortable support that passes inspection enough for Ironhide to leave them with a last warning look at Jazz.

“Thanks... Jazz, right?” Trailbreaker mumbles — sounds embarrassed, fair fragging reaction, Jazz gets it. They manage a set of stumbling steps without any new injuries, so life is good.

“Yeah. Nice t’meetcha.” Jazz smiles tightly. “I didn’t do your first aid.” Trailbreaker was slagged bad, would have needed better medical attention than Jazz could give. Checking in close, Jazz knows the work is too neat — and too specialized, Jazz would remember crimping wheatstone sutures — to be his. A few more ungainly steps, and they manage to find a good cadence.

“Trailbreaker, hi. And you could’ve. I saw you working. Um, sorry if I made you uncomfortable by lying. But you shouldn’t have provoked Cliffjumper like that.”

Just six more fragging mets, c’mon, medbay. “Back atcha,” Jazz says. “You shoulda stayed out of that — hate to alarm, but you are legit very fragging delicate right now.”

Trailbreaker laughs with a way-too-hot gust of air. “I know. And Cliffjumper’s — uh, yeah, he’s kind of a slagger, but he knows too, and he’s my friend. He would have backed off as soon as I grabbed him and he hit me on reflex.”

Jazz doesn’t physically miss a step because he’s fragging graceful. Trailbreaker seemed like he was trying to get hit because he was trying to get hit. “Are you frelling gli—” He got hit anyway. Doing it his way woulda stopped the fight, safer for every single person in the hall. “That’s—” Jazz’s argument dies under a weird hallucination of Prowl’s voice calling him a hypocrite. “Frag, mech,” he mutters.

They’re walking side by side, so it’s as much a ripple of frame contact as a visual cue — Trailbreaker grins and Jazz catches it a little as they wobble the rest of the way into medbay.

The intake medic startles at the sight of Trailbreaker, and then again when he registers Jazz. “You’re not Cliffjumper!”

“And you are welcome for that!” Jazz lets the medic — some kinda bright orange ambulance under the accumulated layer of dried energon — take some of TB’s weight as they get him to the check in. “Sorry he’s late, exciting distractions during his walk, my fault. He’s gonna need a check over before we get him back on berth.”

“Th-thank you for your help. I’ll check him the rest of the way in,” the medic glances nervously at a line painted on the floor and labeled ‘staff only you fraggers’ as Jazz hops along over it.

Jazz smiles and makes sure his claws are already out when he gives a casual wave. “I like helping, I’ll help!”

“Sir, I need you to—”

Ha, it’s been so long since someone ‘sir, I need you to’-ed him that Jazz is almost sorry to bowl over. “Temp, tension, and rpms, yeah?” he chatters, rummaging through medical equipment in the room without letting TB or the medic out of his sight — medic glances away for a sec though, and Jazz snags the shim he’s gonna need.

The medic’s weirdly persistent trying to keep Jazz off Trailbreaker, but — sweet bit — not willing to ping Jazz or physically prevent him from buddying Trailbreaker’s initial exam, or following into the tiny operating booth where they’ll have to extract and gel over the melted switch that took out TB’s leg. Jazz helps resettle Trailbreaker at a recovery position and watches the medic set up his lines.

“Okay,” the medic says it to Trailbreaker, even though he’s side-eying Jazz and twitching like he’s not entirely okay. 

Jazz smiles and waves. 

“I’m going to — this is, you really need to leave, sir.” The medic takes a step towards the marked exit in the privacy screen, trying to angle to encourage Jazz out. 

Jazz hums, flashes a fangy grin, and shakes his head. He doesn’t move from where he’s leaned against TB’s berth. “Naw, s’fine.”

“It’s—”

“It’s okay, he can stay,” Trailbreaker says. He sounds a little uncertain. 

The medic looks between Jazz and Trailbreaker a few times. Then he steps out, a little too quick to be calm.

“Um.” Trailbreaker tries to sit up and gives up at the pull of a monitor cord. “What are you doing?”

Jazz isn’t doing anything. He’s listening to the medic run off, and was about to start checking the cart for clamps and a boost adapter. He inspects Trailbreaker again, makes sure he’s stable and secure. “Medbay buddying?”

“Yeah.” Trailbreaker watches with a slowly growing frown as Jazz hops over to the cart, counts the clamps in the drawers and palms a few. “Hey. What’s a medbay buddy?”

“Your buddy in the medbay. Medical second, safety, backup.” Jazz flaps a hand, glancing up from the operating equipment. “Whatever y’all call the mech that makes sure the medic don’t do anything you didn’t ask for.”

Trailbreaker fragging tries and fails to sit up again, trying to track Jazz as he finds the right adapter and rigs himself an imaging line. “Do you... is that a concern?” 

“Only sometimes.” Jazz perks a quick listen outside and, as long as it seems they’re alone, tests his imaging line on the nearest multi. He shrugs at TB. “Don’t gotta happen very often.”

“Uh. It’s,” Trailbreaker says. “I think I’m okay, really. You don’t need to, um, wait around.”

Jazz’s imaging line calibrates. He flicks a few diagnostics going and grins at TB while that’s rendering. “Aw c’mon mech, it’s boring as frag in here, let me hang out.”

“I, sorry, thanks, but you maybe should actually go,” Trailbreaker says. “Really, they probably won’t come in to operate for at least a joor, and I think I’m going to fall asleep soon.”

He’s not. Trailbreaker’s not falling asleep, he’s going into protective low-energy semi-offline. “That’s good, get some rest TB. You need it. I’ll keep lookout.” The multimonitor chimes a little note and Jazz locks the focus. “Though. You sure it'll be a while?”

“Should be,” Trailbreaker mutters, audibly force-engaging his vocalizer against stasis. “Lotta hurt mechs.”

Hm. Suspiciously self-minimizing attitude aside, TB’s probably got a good sense of the triage timing around here. “If you don’t mind, I’mma multitask for a breem or two.”

TB makes a glitchy noise that cuts with a pop. Jazz safety checks over TB’s positioning, hookups, and vital readouts again. He cocks another listen and, when he only hears normal medbay sounds, he needles a probe into the sore spot in his side and wiggles it around as he watches the connected multireader and imaging — there’s the broken baffle, and it took a bit off the follower that shifted and snapped it, both bits are loose and separate, looks like the follower also ripped two kinds of lines on its way — frag, not gonna be a fun fix.

Jazz unrolls a protective sheet, tosses it over the surgical cart, locks the cart into place, hops up on to it, and drops his collection of clamps, patches, and tools in easy reach. Then he slips his borrowed shim under his plating and, before he can think about it, rips the join open and stabs his claws into his side. 

Tainted energon sprays out onto the sheeting under initial pressure and Jazz has a moment of panic before he’s sure he’s got the worst of the bleed in hand — yeah that was just fluid buildup, he’s good, he’s still good long as he works quick enough — another spurt — clean energon there, since it’s straight from his lines — as he has to let off his grip for a second to get a clamp over the line — lotta slag to clamp and realign before he can pull out the broken bits themselves.

Jazz is fishing in deep — yeah, it fragging hurts, Jazz’s personal least favorite bit is the freaky _cold_ as his senses fail on the distinction between cool air hitting slag it shouldn't and pure _sharp damage_ — for the follower when he hears someone coming.

C’mon c’mon, just walking by? That’d be great.

“—want to let him push you around, do it on your own time, not when you’ve got a patient!” Ratchet, stomping towards their booth and dragging the little narc medic. 

Ain’t like he can stop now, so Jazz works faster, shoves a gear out of alignment and forces it steady to get the space to dig in far enough and he’s just got his claws pinched around the follower when Ratchet walks in.

“And you!” Ratchet’s got — he’s got someone’s _arm,_ mottled silver with fresh patching, and he’s got an irritated look to match his irritated tone as he comes in switching targets mid-rant. “If you think you can harass my st—”

Ratchet cuts off, choking, then cuts off the choking too and out of the corner of his vision Jazz sees him shove the arm off to the other medic.

Jazz finally gets the follower, rips it out fast and flings it to the ground so he can get back in to catch the recoil on the jam it made — almost accidentally skewers himself reflexively unsheathing his claws when he registers Ratchet _right there_ and grabbing him for a scan that stings his exposed circuits.

“What the _frag_ are you _doing?”_ Ratchet says and it’s _angry_ but also accompanied by Ratchet swinging the imaging monitor around to take a look and landing a grip on the trailing edge of Jazz’s pried plating in a way that immediately eases one of the painful pressures Jazz was trying to ignore.

“Slipped gear here s’all, gonna—” Jazz’ll keep calm, work fast, throw himself on Ratchet’s mercy later, when he’s not bleeding.

 _“Stop!”_ Ratchet orders and twists at Jazz’s popped join, that _hurts_ and Jazz tries to pull back from the contact, which gets Ratchet to growl, snatch at a shifting part, and grab hard onto Jazz.

“Hold still!” Ratchet barks and Jazz really does try as for an unsteady moment of jostling agony he’s shoved to open air before Ratchet yanks him braced against the makeshift surgical table. “Stop, don’t do tha— right hand! Relax your right hand and let go in two, one, _now.”_

Jazz realizes in disjointed flashes that Ratchet’s — snatching at fuel-slick parts and shiny-clean tools — pulling at one of his hands and Jazz obeys and lets go, lets Ratchet pull and shove and work on his side.

“You—are you —” Ratchet’s hands don’t twitch, though he makes another choked noise “Are you trying to die?”

Jazz fights his reflexes to squirm, to _fight free —_ he’s pinned and he’s hurt and Ratchet recruits the startled second medic to pin him down more. “Are you?” Ratchet demands.

He can’t see the monitor, can’t see what’s happening, he — oh, Ratchet wants an answer. “Ah, nope,” Jazz gasps out. He whines a laugh. “Still just dumb. Baffle broke.”

“I see that,” Ratchet says. One hand presses a patch down, and the other briefly brandishes a jagged lump of energon-coated material before tossing it to the floor.

Jazz hates — fragging _nobody likes_ being pinned in a corner with someone rooting in his guts but he knows better than to fight once he’s there. Theoretically. He’s trying to hold still — must have been doing kinda slag at it because the moment Ratchet lets up, Jazz slips out and is all the way across the tiny operating theater, stumbling up to his pedes against Trailbreaker’s — TB’s out still, that’s proper stasis — berth and grabbing at his patched side to try to get a feel.

He gets a shaky grin together and pivots between the two medics he’s backing away from. “Thanks doc, sorry ‘bout the—”

“Do _not_ fragging ‘thanks doc’ me you fragger, and _don’t run.”_ Ratchet closes the distance easily and Jazz doesn’t try to flee. “You’re not done. You need—I need —” Ratchet grabs Jazz into an aggressive carry and jerks his chin at the other medic. “Check the room, take that arm back to sterilize, then book the next free table and prep it for a flush and shear casc. I’m taking this one to the idiot box.”

Ratchet heaves Jazz out into the medbay hallway — dim-lit, flecked with solder and soot, an injured mech underfoot flinching out of the path. 

Discomfort — disorientation, embarrassment, physical pain — writhes through Jazz’s circuits and he tries to thrash a leg free, get some control over their motion. “I can fragging walk!” It comes out with more panic and growl than Jazz likes.

“You’re not going to, though,” Ratchet growls right back, “because you can’t be trusted to tell me if anything else breaks in your incredibly messed up side that you just _clawed into._ ” He tugs Jazz into a solid hold and hauls him to a heavy door.

Ratchet keys through remotely and drops Jazz onto a berth half-covered in broken equipment. They’re in a secure room with two and a half scorched walls and a buzzing forcefield sealing it to an individual free berth with a crack down the middle, tiny space cluttered with damaged medical equipment. 

The lights come up with a flick from Ratchet as he fishes a primary monitor and a drip out of the heap. He hooks Jazz up while loudly informing him that, “You are going to sit here quietly like you’re not _completely glitched_ and so fragging help me if you so much as touch your temp patch I will personally remo—” Ratchet snarls and steps back from the berth with a critical scan over Jazz and a threatening wave of some medical debris he grabbed. “Just stay the frag there!” 

“Yessir,” Jazz grits out, fighting half-twitches at the drip and cords, grinning jaggedly at undefined space off to Ratchet’s right.

As soon as Ratchet — casting a parting warning glare — leaves, Jazz rips out the fluid drip and shoves the primary monitor to the edge of the berth so he can stand up and — and walk, get a feel for his fresh patch.

There’s a weird _tingle_ in his lines and an _itch_ from his medical port and — there’s a — Ratchet fragging _chipped him_ with something and Jazz somehow didn’t _fragging notice_ and it’s _hitting_ — he rips it out hard and fast enough that it snaps and he’s gotta twist and brace to pick the shards out of the port, gathering the bits of chip into a shaking hand, “What the frag, what the _frag_ —”

It’s a pain chip. The fancy non-drowsy kind.

Jazz laughs. He gets the last shards together and chucks them into medical waste with a snarl. Laughter bubbles out again, and he turns hard against tense energy, paces tight and fast because he fragging _can’t_ sit like he’s not completely glitched. “Fine!” He wrestles his laughter to something that hurts his welds less. “Okay, fragging, fragging fine! I — I coulda got it, but this works fine, too!”

He’s fine. The patch is fine. He _feels better._ He’s fine, fragging — “Trailbreaker,” he mutters. “Slagging, nothing to — sorry, TB,” fine, TB’s probably fine, really, really, just, “Fragging, fragging, what the frag, that was, _every fragging step_ — c’mon, focus, focus, this is, hey, wanted to get to the medbay, hah, right?” It’s been a _long fragging walk to medbay,_ and he’s here and, “S’fine, nothing even _happened,_ got to the fragging—”

“I feel that I should let you know that I can hear you,” a deep, slightly apologetic voice rumbles from the other side of the forcefield.

Jazz freezes.

Optimus Prime has a very distinctive voice.

“Sorry.” Jazz gets a hold of himself. He vents, sits down at the edge of his berth. After a moment, he picks up the fluid drip he’d ripped out. Traces along the line and carefully unhooks the bag so he can read the label. Coolant. Factory-packed, tamper-evident sealing, freshly spiked.

“Are you alright?” Optimus Prime asks.

This is the day that won’t fragging end. Jazz laughs. “Why the frag am I in a room with you?”

There’s a scraping and clanking sound from the other side of the forcefield as someone big moves around clumsily. Then an annoyed hum that makes Jazz’s sparkrate spin up sharply. “Because, it seems, perpetuating the myth of an infallible Prime required leaving an empty berth in an overcrowded medbay,” the Prime says — _grumbles._ And adds, very softly, “Well, at least it’s in use now.”

Jazz stares at the field, tracking the voice behind it because he can’t fragging not, too dazed to even try to echo or polarize to actually look through it. The field flickers — vanishes with a dull crackle and Jazz jumps a little at the revealed sight of, yeah, Optimus fragging Prime, leaned up against a rolling movement assist, hand on the force screen controls. “There we go,” he says.

Jazz compulsively checks the room — small secure medbay room, rigged to a berth and a half, half for him and one for _the Prime_ — checks the door — yep, that’s a door — and checks and resettles his stance and his plating — puts the pack of coolant down, twists half-stood, braced with the berth between him and Prime — like there’s any fragging posture that will make the world make _sense._

Optimus Prime painstakingly wobbles and rolls away from the control panel on the wall, makes his way closer to Jazz — stops when he takes in Jazz’s wary expression. “Oh. Sorry. Would you prefer I put the screen back up?”

Yes. No. Maybe. Why the frag did he take it down? Jazz is out — of ideas, comprehension, energy. He shrugs, staring.

The room is tiny and the Prime is big and suddenly very close. He’s got _outer plates off,_ big frame carefully wired for heavy wear recovery — he drove here from the Promise, must have — that’s way too far way too fast for his alt, he’s probably peppered with damage — no, he’s definitely, in clear detail, fragging mets from Jazz, got a respectable collection of strain damage.

“Why are you here?” Jazz croaks out.

Optimus Prime sighs. “For morale reasons, if practical, my medical treatment is done discreetly.”

Sure, plus fragging security reasons, Prime, seriously — Jazz could — wait, wait, should Jazz be trying to kill him? The Prime is here and he’s — Prime looks tired, unhappy. Jazz sinks a little back towards sitting on his berth, half-twisted to watch Prime across the berth, and tilts his head at him. “Don’t like that?” Jazz asks.

Optimus Prime blinks at him. “Sorry, I did not mean to complain. I meant to — are you alright?”

Jazz snorts dismissively. He don’t wanna talk about himself or how alright he is. “Are you?”

Prime hesitates, off-balance, before he draws himself together. He looks at Jazz, optics solemn and sincere as frag. “I am just a mech,” he says. “I recognize that being confronted with my limitations may be cruelly frightening to those who depend on me, but I am uncomfortable pretending that they do not exist.”

He does feel a little more like ‘just a mech’ at the moment. S’all anyone is, right, and asking for more is... Jazz nods. “So why go along with it?”

Optimus pauses again, thoughtful. “I suppose my discomfort feels more personal than ethical in nature. Perhaps selfish.” He smiles at Jazz. “And, given the strength of his recommendation, I am inclined to yield to the judgement of my primary care physician.”

Jazz smiles back, more off habit than anything else. “So. That’s how you end up in what I think Ratch called the ‘idiot box.’”

Optimus’s faint smile blooms into full laughter, kicking his fans into an unhealthy wheeze as he struggles to school himself serious. It takes him a klik to manage that, shaking his head. “Oh, no, that is, that’s entirely unprofessional treatment of a,” he gives up and laughs some more. “I’m sorry, welcome to the idiot box, Jazz.”

Jazz laughs too, cause it doesn’t have to mean a thing for him to do it. He grins, leans into his crooked seat, and watches Optimus. He’s got integrating repair, propped sitting unnaturally but comfortably on an adjustable chair, like he’s used to it — not at ease, exactly, but steady, quietly determined. Yeah, that’s his vibe, per usual. Oasis of calm in the middle of a clusterfrag.

Jazz exhales, motion catching on his internals like a little laugh, a little slip as he skids right out of things he understands and grasps for someone he kinda — “You’re still... you, huh?”

Optimus — Prime — he goes very still. He tries to keep his expression calm and unperturbed, but his poker face is slag. “Unavoidably, yes,” he says.

Jazz slumps, loses most of the twist that had him looking across the berth ‘till he’s looking at safe wall. “Fragger, you know what I mean.”

Several sparkbeats — more than it would be for the same amount of time, another time — pass in deep enough quiet for Jazz to hear faint clinking as Optimus tenses, shifts his weight behind him. He sighs. “Very little has made it unchanged through the war. People included,” he says, gravely. Always so serious.

This is gonna be funny. He’s gonna — if Jazz is doing this, whatever he’s doing here with these people, he’s gotta check — he was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be an option at all, anything, too many dealbreakers on both sides. But it’s been a long fragging day and a long fragging war and after everything he wants — he wants to see.

Jazz rolls his optics and — slow, cautious — kicks his pedes up to scoot onto the berth and lean on a monitor so he’s not pointed away from Optimus, so he’s got a bit more casual sprawl and can affect a bit more confidence. “But you still, hm.” He tries a grin, a little stiff. “Find that you have greater concerns than the antics of an alleged smuggler running some kind of interstellar circus.” He flashes his visor — hah, he always liked a visor, the more things fragging change — to the particular red that had been his favorite back in the day, when he’d known exactly one enforcer he’d trust with slag that he couldn’t handle on his own, and, by force of sheer reckless will, Jazz glances over.

 _“Meister.”_ Orion — slag, but that’s _Orion Pax_ — doesn’t even have the decency to look shocked. He looks surprised, sure, but mostly _happy._ “At the moment, I actually do not.” He smiles broadly, starts to push himself to standing — starts reaching out, stops himself. Orion hesitates, teetering a little with undecided balance. “May I hug you?”

Jazz — Meister — Jazzmeister, whatever, can’t help the genuine smile busting through. Spreading his arms with a shrug and going for the hug is all choice, though. He leans in — in _fragging grabbing range_ — and Orion springs from his seat to Jazz’s berth and wraps him tight and gentle and holds him very close and very carefully. He’s — he’s bigger, but it’s spark-deep familiar. “OP. What’s good?”

“I do not believe I included 'alleged' when I said that.”

Jazz shifts back — Orion slacks his grip easily at the movement, doesn’t try to immobilize even as he shifts alongside to keep an arm curled around Jazz — enough to look him in the face and laugh. “Really? Memory’s a funny thing.”

The simple joy on Orion’s face is a fragging thing to behold, while it lasts. Orion — always so serious — shades into something sad. “You should know,” he says. “When your name came up in the Decepticons, I found that it did not make me think worse of your character, and I...” He hesitates, but he never could stop himself from talking politics. “I considered it one of many reminders that the Decepticons hold legitimate grievances and include many individuals worthy of respect and admiration. I was saddened that I understood how they would make sense for you. I regretted when I heard you’d died.”

Meister — no, fragging _Jazz_ tumbles through a couple lifetimes worth of emotions in a few seconds. He leans back a bit, bracing both hands on Orion’s arm. With a little work, he gets the incredulity in his expression replaced with over-dramatic consideration, and gives him a smirk. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Prime.”

Orion, again, lets him pull back, also presses his arm a little more snugly along Jazz’s back. He sighs. “I’ve been told. I have struggled to get the trick of it, though.”

The absolute fragger. Jazz laughs and slings himself and Orion against the head of the berth, rests their weight on the wall and on their fragging bulky medical ancillaries and on each other. The berth is cracked and covered in spare machines, so they end up tucked tight against each other to fit.

“I’m, genuinely, selfishly glad you’re alive. I — every loss is an individual loss, but it’s always — I — I’m very glad you’re alive, old friend.” Orion immediately fragging ruins it. 

Jazz doesn’t stiffen very much, but he can tell Orion can tell. He ignores it, forces himself to get his fragging head together. 

Orion — Optimus pauses. “We were friends, weren’t... I consider you my friend.”

“No.” Jazz untangles his arm from where it’s ended up wrapped behind Optimus. “You were a Primal agent. I was an unreg phreak. Friends don’t usually hunt and kill friends’ friends.”

Optimus lets him sit up, lets him look away, lets Jazz dodge having to see the stupid fragging pain he knows is plain on his face. Optimus sits quiet for long enough to get it under control and sound basically neutral when he says, “I hear you.” His vocalizer clicks on and off in indecision before he continues, “I thought... perhaps as Stepper—”

“Fffffsshk!” Jazz — superspy and liar extraordinaire — _sputters,_ snapping upright and whirling around to stare at Optimus’s suddenly wide-opticked expression. _“That’s_ a fragging name,” Jazz gasps.

“I’m sorry,” Optimus says. “Sorry, I don’t mean to corner you.”

Jazz’s claws flex in and out, under their own confused will. A little choking sound works through Jazz’s vents and resolves, in bewildered default, into a sickly laugh. “You never fragging do.” 

He doesn’t know what he means by that. Jazz is still tired and dizzy and now sitting up in a tangle of cords — he sighs and drops back down to the berth. Jazz settles curled up against Optimus at the head of the berth — doesn’t pull himself in as tight as he was before, but their plating touches and it’s — whatever, it’s fragging comforting. 

Jazz hums, gaze kinda on the ceiling, leaned into warm metal. He can feel some resonance come back off Optimus pressed to him. “Ratchet’s gonna blow a fragging gasket if he catches us like this,” he points out.

“Ratchet works very hard and his anger comes from a place of concern and is usually warranted,” Optimus recites. He adjusts a leg dangling over the side of the berth, carefully unkinks a medical line. “Say something when you hear him coming?”

Jazz pats a nearby plane of red metal in acknowledgement and rests his head against the bulk at his side. “Copy that, OP.”


	23. Chapter 23

Meister ain’t _strong_ enough to move OP once the fragger falls asleep, so he ends up helping Optimus roll back to his berth once he starts dozing, well before there’s any sounds of impending Ratchet. Meister considers following along, but he can’t unclip from his monitor without summoning medical attention. He’d take it with, but the float stand is busted and there’s a sea of broken gear in the way. 

The idiot box is a functional medbay room, but it also appears to be where they’ve been stashing any bulky equipment that’s kinda valuable and kinda broken. Like Prime and Jazz. Slag that’s fixable, as soon as someone gets a sec. Not even just medical slag. There’s — 

There’s a 71T long-range signal booster. Meister can reach it easy without pulling out his monitor line. It needs a battery replacement but there’s one in a busted nitroconverter nearby and once that’s in, it turns on fine. 

Meister pauses, checks over Optimus’s readouts — stable, fatigued, lights off — listens for people coming. He’s clear. 

Credentials prepped, he dials the transceiver to an old address. Static. 

Static. `no signal` it says. 

Yeah, no signal. Cool. Rad. That’s his luck.

Meister dials off and puts the battery back in the converter, buries the signal booster back where he found it. “Optimus,” he says to the big lump in the other berth. 

No response. 

“‘Ey, Pax!”

Orion blinks awake and smiles groggily at him. 

Meister laughs and leans to the edge of his range to pat Orion’s arm. “You gotta put the screen back up before Ratchet comes back.” He catches Orion’s wrist and flashes him an old grin. “Probably better all around if this didn’t exactly happen, yeah?” Meister is — uh, kinda famous.

“I’m glad it did.” Orion searches over Meister. He sighs and smiles sadly. “I understand that your secrets are important. We’ll go at your pace, Jazz.”

Yeah, OP is still fragging insane. Meister quirks him a sneak’s smile and gives his huge hand a squeeze before he lets go.

Once the screen’s back up, Jazz sets himself back on his berth, nice and neat as Ratchet left him. Aight. He can work with this.


	24. Chapter 24

Ratchet’s got some troubling suspicions about _why,_ but at least Ricoch—Jazz, whatever, whoever, has calmed significantly down by the time Ratchet collects him for a proper fix to the mess he made of his side. They do local anesthetic, and Ratchet makes sure there’s an imaging screen that Jazz can see. Ratchet doesn’t need the extra visual guidance, but he does prefer a patient who isn’t terrified and force-overriding escape reflexes.

Jazz holds very politely still, and limits himself to little anxious claw flexes and intense scrutiny of Ratchet’s work.

Ratchet should say something calming, something non-threatening, to kindle the delicate trust he’s being offered right now. He shakes his scanner to reset a bad reading and mentally digs through his thin supply of gentle reassurances as the reading recalculates. 

The bad reading doesn’t reset. “You are dangerously overclocked!” Ratchet yells.

“Against spec!” Jazz tenses and twitches, but doesn’t dodge the extra leads Ratchet clips in. “I’m in personal tolerance! I’ve got over 3% safety margin at max stress!”

“You’re saying that like it’s a good number, you fragg—” Fragging fragger. “Okay.” Ratchet forces himself to take a step back, puts his hands where Jazz can see them, tilts his dioreader to an angle they can both read. He finds a particularly bad section and highlights it. “This is not a safe configuration.”

Jazz glances at the exit before hunching back. “I’m fine. It’s fine. If you change it, my callosum will try to compensate and overheat.”

He is a mess of mismatched parts and repairs, on top of high-performance mods that haven’t been properly maintained for at least ten vorns, on top of a desperate desire to avoid any medical interactions. “What you are,” Ratchet says, “is in need of regular tuning and checkup.”

Jazz manages a flippant smile, like Ratchet can’t see his elevated sparkrate and clenching fingers. “Aw, no way that’s a good use of a full doctor’s time. It’s just lil rough...” His smile fades under the steady weight of Ratchet’s glare. “Sorry I startled you with that. Won’t happen again.”

Ratchet, unfortunately, has enough _terrible_ patients to know that he means he’ll try harder not to get caught next time he wants to do impromptu surgery on himself. “It won’t,” Ratchet agrees through clenched teeth. “Here’s how it’s going to go,” he says. “You are going to need regular tuning for all your unstable mods. You know what they are, so you are going to tell me what they are, and we are going to check in every decacycle. If you need any non-routine care, you are going to come to me immediately.”

Jazz sighs. His smiling mask gives way to tired uncertainty, with something distinctly calculating in the way he’s looking at Ratchet. “I know I gotta tune.” He nods, braces very carefully as he watches Ratchet. “Ain’t had a chance to since I shuffled my p-index queue. I know it’s a mess, but it’s my mess. I can handle it. Please let me. Don’t make me come in, I don’t gotta.”

“You did this to yourself,” Ratchet confirms with an unhappy sigh. That’s not really a surprise, which is the only reason Ratchet’s able to bite back his long and angry rant about how _reckless_ it is. It’s some finicky experimental custom slag, and if a doctor had done it to Jazz, Ratchet would want his fragging license. If it’s something Jazz is going to do to himself, Ratchet wants it done in a medbay, ideally by Ratchet. 

Ratchet grimaces. He puts down the reader and grabs the tools to finish the mechanical fixes on Jazz’s side. “You’re a fine medic, and you clearly know how to work with the 3rd to 6th code cortices.” Jazz has an obvious terror of being _changed_ against his will or knowledge, and it’s hard to pick out where that separates from fear of being _overruled._ Both are depressingly familiar. “But if nothing else, you can’t _reach_ everything on your own frame.”

Once the mechanics are steady, Ratchet preps a flush to clear the contaminants from multiple line type bleeds. Ratchet isn’t sure how the frag Jazz thought he’d be able to that part on his own. “Keeping you in good shape is my job, and I’d like to do my job well. You are making that more difficult right now.”

Ratchet sets the flush going and steps back again, not touching Jazz, so Jazz can stop dividing his attention. “I want to help you. Do you understand?”

Jazz looks at Ratchet, quiet, subdued. “Not really.”

Well. Anything else would have been an obvious lie. “That’s fine. Just stay _functioning_ and we can work out the details from there.”

Ratchet finds the subtly two-axle transducer that snapped the baffle and came uncomfortably close to killing his patient. He wants Jazz’s fragging specs. One step at a time. “This is custom work,” Ratchet notes. “You’ve had mods, maintenance. Not recently, but you’ve seen a functional medical system before.” Fragging _please._

Jazz laughs. “I do like you, Ratch.” He tilts his head at Ratchet with a smile. It doesn’t look like his desperate attempts to pretend he’s okay. It looks wistful. “But you ain’t my amica.”

Signs of proper maintenance on Jazz cut off pretty abruptly. People get transferred, and relationships change, but Jazz’s tone suggests that he hasn’t had good care since his amica doctor died. It’s technically bending medical guidelines to operate on bondmates, but even if Ratchet was in a position to criticize, that’s possibly the least alarming breach of medical ethics that Jazz has experienced.

“No, I’m your doctor,” Ratchet says. He runs another scan, watching the fragile points in Jazz’s systems. “And that means if you need — if you _want_ fixes, mods, or maintenance, you will talk to me. I will, however I can, help you.”

Jazz listens. Smile still in place and getting a little less unnatural, he nods slowly. “I can work with that.”

-

** `[nxs4895623] :gonna just... loiter in the airlock for a bit:  
♫♪ :loiter loiter!:  
♪♩ :btw hows scraplet 2 doin?:  
[nxs4895623] :doin:  
[nxs4895623] :slagged enough to be hurting, not slagged enough to take it seriously:  
♪♫ :bored and covered in itchy welds? if you wantt to swap groaning for triviababble for a couple joor I gotchu some fresh dromeda quizshow:  
_♫♩ attached a video file_  
[nxs4895623] :ha whentf did you get ansible access for that?:  
[nxs4895623] :hey thanks mech!:` **

Blaster’s been — well, mostly he’s been chasing reception and passing messages back and forth like a sentient comm line, but in his little bits of down time, while he’s grabbing a cube or resting systems, Blaster’s been checking back through fragging _vorns_ of conversation. There’s a lot to go through. But he’s been re-reading that bit for more than a breem. He’s stuck on it. 

Iacon West, 84.3, when Rewind had been off-duty, walking with a friend, and gotten _yanked_ into an acid gutter, knocked out, been half-mauled by the time Chromedome had managed to fend off a cackling Con. Rewind’d been berth-ridden for a deca. They’d all gotten to hear the best fun facts out of that _fragging video_ at least a dozen times.

Blaster is stuck on it, he’s getting to be unable to fragging focus. He goes to the cells. It’s dim to conserve power, and a good chunk of the cells are occupied by people who recognize that a berth is a berth, but it’s easy to find the right cell. He’s fragging _singing._

Saccharine fragging hit single that was nonstop on the Strack City airwaves for most of last year, overplayed as frag but sung soft enough no one seems to even mind. He’s a good singer. He’s kicked back on the berth in his cell, shifting to look through the bars as Blaster approaches.

The psycho Con — _Jazz_ ’s visor flares bright, the song cuts out, and Jazz shoots to his pedes at the sight of Blaster. 

Jazz stares at him. He sways a bit, twitches between gestures, before ending up at a kind of nervous attention in the middle of the cell. His mouth opens, closes. He smiles.

Blaster leaves.

He storms down the cell block, ignoring a stray curious glance, ready to ignore a voice calling after. Makes it all the way to the end, to the block door and the empty security booth. He stands there for a klik.

When he goes back, Jazz is still standing there, in the exact same stance. Not smiling. He looks lost, until he gets himself to neutral and gives a tiny nod as Blaster comes to a stop at the cell bars.

“Did—” Blaster never really had a mental picture of Jazz, kinda nursed an impression of a freaky-looking technorganic or, or colonist with experimental face mods. Something surprising. Not this _half-familiar_ mech. “Can you take that slag off?” he demands, gesturing at the visor.

Jazz takes the visor off, fiddles with some minor kibble, and shifts his colors. _There’s_ the slagger Blaster knows, the fragging face he’s collected so many combat-blurred captures of. His expression underneath is unfamiliar, guarded and nervous. The shade of red is instinctively fragging irritating.

Blaster stares at him, not sure what he’s looking for.

“Did I do something to you?” Blaster finally manages. Jazz’s hands stumble their hold on his visor a little in surprise and Blaster shakes his head before he has a chance to speak. “I’m stuck.”

Blaster gestures in frustration and paces at the cell bars. “I keep going back and forth. Did I accidentally slag you off at some point?” He glances over to see Jazz tracking him, otherwise completely still. “Or did you just think it was _funny_ to target my team and then fragging _ask how they were doing?”_

“How? What?” Blaster stops in front of Jazz. “Was it me, or was it you, that made you hate me?”

Jazz starts and stops a step back. “What? No!” He shakes his head. “No, no. I don’t hate you.” Jazz scrunches his face, shakes his head again, and narrows his optics at Blaster — fragging confused and cautious. “What? I didn’t do that slag because I wanted to hurt you.”

“Don’t you fraggin’— You shouldn’t have—” Blaster doesn’t have fragging words.

It’s not the same as slag he experiences himself, but mirror memories are pretty slagging clear, and Blaster’s got this slagger in hard memory. Across a trench, a brief glint of red optics glancing up from a fallen camera before he lunges. A flash of smile spotted in the terrifying moments between feeling a claw on his shoulder, twisting in panic, and everything sparking out. Coming in to support Axel’s fight with a Con, who looks up with _delighted recognition_ and abandons Axel entirely to _chase._

That last one, there, is another bit Blaster is fragging _stuck_ on. “Every time!” Blaster says. “Every time it was my guys or another guy, you went for my guys! You’d talk to me, you’d hit us, you’d talk to me! That slag was _on purpose.”_

“Yeah, I was fragging going for your team! Slip a packet into Rewind’s back intel archives is the _best_ way to get that info to the right places.” Jazz steps towards Blaster with a jerky shrug and something that gets _dangerously_ close to _laugh._ “Not because I wanted to — because I—”

Jazz steps back, stumbles like he can’t find a comfortable way to stand, gesturing ambiguously. “Yeah, I targeted you! Because I, I li— resp— because it was you.” His optics are wide and almost wild when they land on Blaster, and he’s grinning for a moment before he realizes it and wipes it. “I’m — frag — I was a fragging Con! Every data leak was treason, and I _wasn’t_ giving data to the fragging Bots, I was giving it to _you,_ because I knew you and liked you and trusted _you.”_

He’s — okay, he hadn’t gotten that angle on it. From that angle, it’s — _still fragged up._ “I,” Blaster says, “trusted you.”

The wild, desperate look on Jazz slowly turns itself into a smile, sharp and lit red by fixed bright optics. “You shouldn’ta,” Jazz breathes.

Before Blaster can figure out whether he’s going to leave again or get in there and punch him again, Jazz looks down, slumps. “But I knew you did. And I’m sorry that I,” he says, “that I kept... letting — acting — being your—” Jazz wraps his arms around himself with a noise that glisses between a growl and a whimper. “I’m sorry that I acted like we could be friends on top of everything. I wasn’t trying to trick — that was just for me. I liked talking to you. And I knew it wasn’t fair.”

Go in there and punch him again, feels right. Blaster steps in, grabs and presses against the force bars between them. “Wrong. Fragging. Apology.”

Jazz looks up, features set abnormally calm, meets Blaster’s glare with a bland look lit in over-bright magenta.

“You attacked us. You hurt us, hacked us, _used_ us.”

“Buffer rewrite ain’t hacking,” Jazz says and immediately winces, “— doesn’t matter,” winces again, “— I mean, it matters, just, not what you call it. Frag, sorry, I mean.” Jazz takes a shuddering vent and straightens, looks at Blaster, expression steady, sad, so fragging different from how he’s ever seen or imagined him. “It saved a lot of people.” Jazz jerks his gaze away, shrugs spasmodically, laughs. “You know that. You know what there is to know. Ain’t much more to it.”

Jazz settles some, comes to a rest and looks at Blaster. “I knew what I was doing. I hurt you, hacked you, used you. I did it.” He looks away again, looks down, steady. “I knew, while I was doing it, that it was unforgivable.” 

Blaster’s got fragging hundreds of memories of a mech, this mech — of him, lunging for them, grabbing, cackling laughter and a shock prod dropping from a vent, crushing claws through sensitive plating, a grappling hook out of a dark gap, laughing, mocking, angry, worried, bored — never, though — he’s almost unrecognizable, like this. Looking away. Resigned.

“That ain’t really your call,” Blaster snaps. 

Jazz cringes at the tone, then falters and flutters with obvious confusion. He looks up.

“Whether it’s forgivable.”

The confusion ticks up sharply, and breaks as his optics widen. Jazz stands motionless. “You shouldn’t, mech.”

Blaster hums in irritation. He ain’t saying he does. It ain't fully his call, either. “Yeah, well.” Turns out his best — turns out Jazz is — turns out Jazz has some fragging _issues_ and Blaster’s got a lot of slag to pick though. And a meeting in a breem. He snorts. “Frag you, Jazz.”

-

Smokescreen very, very rarely questions whether Prowl is taking something seriously enough. If Prowl is checking blindspots at a walking pace, it’s probably an appropriate pace.

::92% Red Alert motions to zero Jazz’s clearance when he finds out how comfortable he has become on base,:: Prowl muses, stepping back onto view of the camera in C11, where they’ve got the last sighting of Jazz, strolling off.

Fragging 100% when he finds out how comfortable Prowl seems with how comfortable Jazz is. Smokescreen hates being the responsible one. ::5 to 1 Red Alert tries to get one of us court martialed for something related to Jazz security,:: he offers back. ::And 1 to 7 he’s somewhere in B hall. Inferno says his tracker’s pinging on base, somewhere in Building 1, just a little warped with EM.:: 

Prowl pings acknowledgement back. ::He told Bumblebee he was meeting with me. 4/1 he’s in an interview room.::

::Odds ratio!:: Smokescreen checks the area on the tracker against camera outage and Jazz’s fragging _whimsy_ and finds it checks out. ::Did you just use an odds ratio in a situation when margin of error is important?::

Prowl glances up at a camera as he passes by. ::You understand margin of error on odds ratios, my point is that Jazz—::

::Nope!:: His point is that Jazz probably broke into an interview room instead of letting Prowl collect him from his cell for their appointment. ::No one understands margin of error on odds ratios, that’s what the odds ratio jar is for! Pay the jar, sir!:: Smokescreen hunts around the security feeds in the impromptu tac-admin-coordination hub they’ve set up. Yep, there he is. ::Jazz is in Room 116.:: 

::The jar is in _Iacon,_ I’m not going to..:: Prowl pings a double-acknowledgement and enters 116. Smokescreen expands the feed and tunes to the audio. 

“—think you’re doing?” Prowl snaps.

Jazz flinches, properly flinches, and Prowl stops in his tracks. Smokescreen frowns a little at the interaction. His reflex is to offer Prowl advice, but it looks suspiciously like Smokescreen missed some steps in this relationship.

The pause lasts a second, tops, then Jazz mostly hides his tension and shrugs and groans expressively. “Being mediocre!” He looks sideways at Prowl. “I know we're supposed to be in 113, down the hall, but it's off the vent system, and this was the only room I could actually get into.” 

Testing limits. Going to be _trouble,_ but not necessarily a bad sign. That’s tentative trust, feeling for a particular dynamic with Prowl. Frag, Smokescreen misses having good psych support, there must be someone he can put on this.

“It's still a good trick, but it could be better, y'know?” Jazz shakes his head at himself, but his balance shifts to track Prowl as he approaches.

Prowl pauses for a moment and keeps his demeanor — hey, Smokescreen recognizes that, non-threatening approach #3, just slightly awkward as he frowns and flicks on magnetization on Jazz’s seat. “Do you think this is funny?”

Jazz arranges himself into the magfield and looks thoughtfully off to the side for a moment. “Yeah,” he says. “Pretty sure of it actually.”

Smokescreen can’t endorse it, but he’s not in the room, so, yeah, he’s laughing a little. 

“Yes, yes, you think rules are for other people, it’s a broadly celebrated attitude in particular subcultures.” Prowl says acerbically. He also sits down and pulls out his datapads without further comment, and that makes Smokescreen sit up and squint at the feed. Is Prowl... relaxed?

“Hey, nah, I think rules are for everyone! That’s the point, right? And once a rule ain’t helping anyone, it’s no good.” 

Prowl checks between his notes and a little stolen look at Jazz. “This would be the philosophy that guided your pre-war political activism.”

Jazz winks and summons a piece of rubble out of thin air, fidgets with it idly. “Activism's a strong word, Prowler.”

“It fits. Philosophically. What exactly did you do before the war?”

“Entertainment.” Jazz tilts his head at Prowl, spins his rubble. “Nothing exciting. Pinch tech crew or backup for some moderately popular bands.” He leans in and grins at Prowl. “Odd jobs. Some kiddie grey market slag — little piracy, little forgery.”

“An information broker favoring the early Decepticon movement?”

Jazz sags back with a laugh and a shrug. “Early days I was super into it. Embarrassingly so. ‘You are being deceived.’ What a fragging slogan for an antigov hacker with delusions of being some kinda investigative journalist.”

Prowl nods. “You were a solid ideological fit. Through a complicated series of political realignments, you have always had sincere and idealistic intentions.”

Jazz’s hand clenches on his bit of stone. He tosses it, catches it. “What’s that matter?”

“It is admirable.” Prowl’s multitasking, tapping at a datapad. Smokescreen gets an inbox alert for approval on some report he had pending. “You are well-intentioned, and you are extremely competent. Why haven’t you accomplished more?”

Smokescreen drops his alert checking and stumbles halfway to opening his line to Prowl. That’s a very Prowl backhanded compliment, with an unusually audible level of honest Prowl anger, and he just throws it out there like he knows what he’s doing.

Jazz sits up and winces at the pull from the magnetization. “I been doing slag.”

Smokescreen leaves his comm off and puts his report away for later. Prowl’s smart. Maybe he knows what he’s doing.

“Your network, and your ad hoc interventions?” Prowl looks up, looks intently at Jazz. “You’ve been demonstrating very clearly that you could be doing more, but that you have no _plan.”_

Jazz vanishes the rubble. He leans forward to talk to Prowl a little low and a little angry. “What exactly, more, could I have been doing? I’m good, I ain’t _magic._ I’m—” He laughs. “Comms Officer, 4th class baby. Too low to have to kill people all the time, too high to get killed all the time. Perfect fragging spot for a burnout. I was doing _fine.”_

Prowl doesn’t move. “You are a liar.”

Jazz shrugs and sits back again. “And you’re smart enough to see through it, so, glad we can chat.” He sighs. “What do you want, Prowler?”

Prowl — Prowl _softens._ “Generally, to win the war with minimized cost,” he says, bland as normal. “Short term, we’ve received additional communication requests from some of your contacts. Please work with Blaster to manage some coordination.”

There’s a brief flicker at the mention of Blaster. Yeah. They ran a similar set of coordination earlier, and both managed something stiffly professional with each other, which on those two was borderline creepy. Frag, Smokescreen’s going to have to keep an optic on that mess. 

And on whatever’s happening here. Jazz and Prowl hold optic contact a little longer than ‘please do some coordination’ really calls for, and Jazz smiles. “You got it. Post 993, yeah?”

Jazz and Prowl start working codes and tactical plans, and Smokescreen’s definitely going to watch that closely later, but at that point he copies over recent storage off the feed and switches audio and focus to re-watching what just happened. 

When Prowl comes back to trade command shifts, he’s got his usual thick air of stress and distraction.

Smokescreen clears his datapads from the desk and snags Prowl’s attention before he passes off his datapads and loses any chance of having a conversation. Prowl stands there politely, and if Smokescreen’s not losing his mind, there’s something like happiness in his demeanor. 

“That’s Jazz, huh?” Smokescreen asks.

Prowl nods. “He says he never registered the designation because it’s always common enough that he’d have to fight someone over it.”

“Common name, common frame,” Smokescreen agrees. He’s had a chance to go over detail images of Jazz’s guises, and the mech is a master of using context, demeanor, and minor adjustments to become someone unrecognizable. “Uncommon person, though.”

Prowl nods. He looks distracted, but Smokescreen’s still holding the passoff paperwork, so he can’t already be starting on that.

“You’re not mad that he hacked you?” Smokescreen asks. Prowl’s definitely frustrated with Jazz about something, and the hack back when they met is the main thing Smokescreen knows about. 1 in 9 it’s that, though.

Yeah, Prowl’s briefly confused parsing the question. “No,” he says dismissively. “Given the circumstances, I am confident in his assessment that it was the right thing to do.”

“So,” Smokescreen says. “You got rescued by and-or kidnapped this guy, then he was my headache for a few confusing days where we established that Blaster hates him for confidential reasons, and we definitely can’t lose track of him for super confidential reasons.” 

Smokescreen pulls back the passoff datapads so Prowl will look at him and not them. “Then redacted, he rescued Bumblebee, redacted, redacted, you asked him to join us and he said no, redacted, he kinda joined us but only because he didn’t realize we wouldn’t execute him and you were fragged off about the whole thing, but hey! We've basically convinced him we're not going to torture and kill him, and now he's running around working with you on tactics and making friends on base."

Prowl considers. “He also appears to be hiding some past personal connection with Orion Pax,” he adds. 

That was in a briefing for Smokescreen, right. “Great. Yeah. Glad we're caught up.”

He motions for Smokescreen’s passoff, and Smokescreen gets up and gives him command.

Smokescreen keeps an optic on Jazz’s tracker, and next chance he gets, finds him in the medbay mess hall.

Jazz is in a booth with Trailbreaker, Rewind, and Bumblebee. They’re chatting easily, barely drawing any second looks even with Jazz’s brand out. Smokescreen grabs a cube and walks up casually.

“Hiya!”

Well, Ricochet or Jazz, Smokescreen apparently still sucks at being reassuring to this guy, because Jazz’s default grin vanishes and he sits up straight, coming almost to attention. The mood at the table instantly goes weird. Bumblebee looks back and forth between Smokescreen and Jazz. “Sm—sir! Hi! Um, we haven’t, I mean, he hasn’t—” Bee fumbles around for, probably his movement log. “I’ve got the beacon and—”

Smokescreen bobs his wings and pulls up a chair. “Eh, whatever. I don’t care, I’m not his sponsor.”

Rewind blinks at that. “Bee’s not either. Who is?”

They had considered claiming Bee for his sponsor. Then they’d seen Bee and Jazz interact for more than a breem and realized no one was ever going to miss Bee’s phenomenal lack of objectivity. Smokescreen sips from his cube. “Prowl.”

Teebs’s visor brightens and he looks at Jazz with some alarm. “Prowl? Wow, why’d you get Prowl?”

Jazz blinks. “You know Prowl? Should I be worried about Prowl?” Good mech. Prowl and Jazz have officially only met twice, to do minor paperwork.

“He’s...” Trailbreaker glances at Smokescreen and trails off into a mumble.

Rewind generously fills in. “ _Stickler_ for the rules. No humor, and no mercy. Possibly actually a sparkless drone.”

No one who’s seen Prowl, sparking furious and icy calm, working himself into critical crash coordinating rescue on a fragging _doomed_ strike team, would think Prowl is a sparkless drone. But, few people have. Very few people like Prowl.

Jazz laughs. “I did kinda get that read.” He twirls his empty cube thoughtfully. “I can work with that, though.”

He settles back to polite attention towards Smokescreen. “Should I be doing something, sir?”

Bee’s rapt, tracking every sound and movement. Trailbreaker’s slumping a little from overexertion, and Rewind is making sure the slumping isn’t disconnecting any of his medical support. 

“You’re good, mech,” Smokescreen says. “I’m off-duty. Basically. Last bit on my official work: I wanted to come by to apologize.” 

Jazz is too neutral, throttling off some reaction. 

Smokescreen sighs. “Even if you’re not feeling it now,” (he definitely is, but that’s how the line goes) “culture shock can be rough. You’re supposed to get proper integration support, there’s a whole... urgh.” Smokescreen groans and gestures with his cube. “I’m honestly not sure where our relevant psych is, and that’s on us, not on you. So. Sorry. And, well. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help out.”

Jazz has an incredible poker face and a demonstrated unwillingness to show his emotions to Smokescreen, but his expression is pretty openly skeptical. Smokescreen counts it as a victory and grins at him. 

“Um. Thank you sir. I’ll keep that in mind,” Jazz says. He looks at Trailbreaker, who’s starting to sink more weight onto Rewind than Rewind can take. “I’ll— we should probably get Trailbreaker back to the medbay.”

Yeah, probably. Convenient, that. Smokescreen nods. “Bee, why don’t you help Rewind with that?”

Jazz stops where he’s started to get up, looks apprehensively at Smokescreen. Smokescreen nods for him to stay, and smiles and waves in response to Bee and Rewind’s curious glances back as they haul Teebs off.

Mess hall — ‘mess hall,’ it's a warehouse where they’ve been piling rubble, next to a room with a dispenser — is crowded, full of chatter that whites out easy eavesdropping, and Smokescreen scoots in close enough for decent privacy. Jazz scans the room, uses a vague shrugging gesture to make it a little less obvious that he’s picking out cameras before he drops nervously back to his seat.

Another day, Smokescreen would be absolutely fascinated to know exactly why he’s more intimidating than Prowl to this mech. Today, he’s just going to roll with it. Smokescreen takes another sip as he turns away from the departing trio. “Social mech, huh?”

Jazz sits still and small, visor pointed at the table. “I like people, sir.”

“Drop the sir, I don’t like it.” Smokescreen nods. “Social’s good. Good for morale, good for information, and something you gotta respect in yourself. I bet you’ve been half out of your mind with isolation.”

Jazz looks up from the table, maybe just a flicker of irritation, there. “I had friends.”

“Yes, and I’m sure that helped,” Smokescreen says, even though he’s not at all sure what definition of ‘friend’ Jazz is working off of. “But no one you could trust. Or, frag, anyone you could relax around? Don’t bother answering that, I can’t tell when you’re lying. My point is, friends are great.”

Jazz nods slowly, and Smokescreen tries not to relish his clear discomfort, because he thinks that might be a bit mean. He smiles.

“I’m glad you’re making friends. Bee’s great. Trailbreaker’s great. You’re charming as frag and I really think you’re going to do fine here.”

Smokescreen tilts his cube, holds it steady to try to get the worst sediment to settle to the bottom corner. Jazz isn’t moving, isn’t flickering his gaze from Smokescreen’s face. Smokescreen studies him right back, expression serious. “What are you doing with Prowl?”

“Prowl?” Jazz’s wary neutral mask cracks into a smile. It’s not friendly, but it also doesn’t look fake. “Prowl’s a good mech, and an interesting one. I like Prowl.”

Old news, that maybe Smokescreen didn’t understand fully at the time. “You don’t mind that he tried to kill you less than an hour after you first met?”

Jazz’s expression falters in what seems to be a hunt through memory. “Less than an... oh! Oh, that!” According to Prowl’s report, he had made an unsuccessful attempt to kill his interrogator as soon as his data leak had registered. Jazz laughs, and leans on the table just so he can wave a hand dismissively. “Psh, ain’t no thang.”

Jazz chuckles and shakes his head at nothing. “Prowl, Prowl is —” he turns to Smokescreen with an affectionate smile. “I have lied to actual mind readers with more success.”

Smokescreen laughs back. Okay, maybe Jazz likes Prowl. Maybe even cares. “Well, good for you Prowl seems to like you.”

Prowl’s a little stiff on the edges of his interactions with Jazz, but Prowl’s baseline is ‘ _disastrously_ stiff.’ It’s tense, but this Jazz and Prowl thing looks suspiciously like a respectful rapport. Prowl, terrifyingly, seems to have made a _rare_ connection, with Jazz.

Smokescreen sighs and leans in. “If we have to kill you, it is going to destroy him.”

Jazz stops moving, seems to stop venting. “Did I do something?” he asks.

“Nah.” Smokescreen shrugs. “Nothing I’m trying to casually threaten execution over. Prowl and Mirage can handle the actual espionage analysis. But.” Smokescreen frowns. “You’ve made it personal.”

Jazz stares at Smokescreen, visor unreadable, hands doing some rhythmic fidgeting that Smokescreen really wants to interpret as contemplative. He looks down, sits back. “Everything’s fragging personal,” he mutters.

Smokescreen leans on the table and watches Jazz. He half-smiles. “Sucks, doesn’t it.”

After a moment, Jazz peeks up. “Factions,” he says, twitching a smile to match Smokescreen’s, “politics, aliens, armies.”

“All just, fragging _people.”_ Smokescreen nods and pulls a face. “It’s the worst! But look at you. You can work with peop—”

Smokescreen’s already on his pedes by the time he consciously registers the screeching tone as a type 3 emergency alarm.

Jazz is lurched half upright and half back, visor bright and claws out, but he’s looking at Smokescreen, not at the PA and that’s because it’s an internal alarm and Smokescreen’s maybe just startled like a glitch.

“Sorry Jazz, that’s my work alarm.”

Jazz glances around the room, where a few mechs noticed Smokescreen jumping but no one’s taken real interest. “Emergency?”

“Everything’s an emergency,” Smokescreen says with a shrug and a work smile. He pings Bee to get back here, and tap someone else in for Teebs if he needs to. “I’ll wait for Bumblebee.”

And yeah, it’s probably worth the response time trade off to keep this security guideline. Smokescreen’s extra two minutes aren’t that valuable, and it’s not hard to stay calm and finish his cube while Bee shows up. Emergencies happen, and by count they’re usually crisis aversion instead of management, regularly things Smokescreen can’t even do much for.

Turns out this one’s pretty bad though. They had to wake Red Alert. To no one’s surprise, he is _apoplectic_.


	25. Chapter 25

Jazz is on the floor. On his back, mostly, pedes propped on his cell berth and against the wall, like he is sitting down on the berth in a world where gravity is perpendicular. He puts away the datapad he was reading and rolls up onto an elbow to look at Prowl as he approaches.

“What are you reading?” Prowl asks. Jazz requested and was given a datapad early on. He immediately used it to construct an improvised explosive and exit his cell on the Steel Promise, and (to Prowl’s knowledge) Jazz has not been given a datapad since.

Jazz hides the datapad under his berth with some showy sleight-of-hand and sits up with a grin as Prowl keys down the bars and enters his cell. “Eh, nothing. Sup Prowler?”

Prowl keys the bars back up behind him, careful to avoid showing his back to Jazz. “This is a security question, and your honest answer is mandatory. What are you reading?”

::Play nice, Prowl,:: Smokescreen reminds him, ::don’t clue him in.:: 

::Clarify,:: Prowl requests, keeping his outward demeanor steady.

Jazz laughs, grabs the datapad, and gets up to hand it to Prowl. “Pit, Prowler. Just C1 personnel files.”

::Uh. Nevermind, I guess.:: Smokescreen says.

“From the old database?” Prowl takes the datapad and checks it over. Low-clearance personnel basics (nothing dangerous, 83%). Nothing Jazz should have access to, but focusing on that seems a waste of time. “What are you looking for?”

“Nothing really. Who’s still alive, whether Hopper and Huffer ever tied the knot.” Jazz shakes himself out and stretches. “Just readin’. They kinda don’t put out gossip rags fast enough to keep me busy since the war's been on.” He glances at the bars and grins at Prowl. “You hanging out, or you wanna cuff me before we go? We goin’ somewhere interesting?”

“I need to cuff you.” Prowl puts down the datapad and indicates for Jazz to stand in a way that will let Prowl disable him without exacerbating his injuries. 

Jazz obliges with a wink. “Any time, babe.”

Prowl flicks out a pair of cuffs one-handed and snaps them onto Jazz’s offered wrists. As they click shut, Prowl pings the inhibitor frequency, tackles Jazz’s collapsing frame, pins him against the floor and the wall, quickly pries the covers from Jazz’s 2nd, 3rd, and 5th proximal ports, snaps in Red Alert’s interface adaptor, and plugs in. 

There is no time for Jazz to partition or defend himself. (That was the point of playing nice.) Prowl himself has little time to prepare and collides into the pandemonium of Jazz’s unguarded mind in a mutually painful clash. When Jazz tries to pull his preset partitions and draw up his firewalls, he can feel them error and collapse against alien code. (That was the point of Red Alert’s interface adaptor.)

Prowl is braced, and orients first, immediately grabs for recent memories, tries to find _what-why-how he did it._ He only gets a flashing blur of immediate associations — he’s _scrabbling desperate against a heavier mech_ — _cornered and_ _weak and pinned down voice cracking please no don’t it’s —_ it’s mindless and terrified and _pathetic_ , an aspect Jazz would never show except that Prowl knows that he has (he is) because this is memory of that, some worn flashback and not what Prowl (wants to see) is looking for — before Jazz finds his balance and the strand of information scatters and reforms from his grip with an impression of wild laughter.

 _That’s how it’s gonna be then?_ Jazz regains enough physical coordination to try to roll his weight under Prowl. Prowl pings him again — feels the echo of numbness across the line — and pins Jazz securely under his frame.

While he can’t conventionally defend himself, Jazz’s structure (or lack thereof) is formidable on its own, a whirlpool of sense and association and potent emotion that he throws to Prowl unfiltered to overwhelm. Prowl latches on to all of it before Jazz remembers exactly how much information Prowl is capable of sorting through, and focuses on a simple check. _How did you do it?_

“Code phrase.” Jazz smiles and squirms beneath him — _not tryna escape, just_ — enough to make optic contact. “Passed to the ring in the routine updates.” _Code 098, goes to Gridsteel, and he passes that to the Wreckers, and that’s how they intercepted —_

That is not right. That is (from 78.9, outside Hele—unimportant) a diversion, it’s — 

“Oh whoops, yeah that was Helex. This time I ran it separate.” _A bug stowed away during a friendly touch on the away team, on —_ Prowl sees the memory, and _that is not anyone on the away team._ Jazz hums with a thoughtful expression, and remembers — _it was preplanned, warned the depot ahead of time that Zeta was —_ no — _found a transceiver in a supply closet and_ — not right, no, none of this is right.

Prowl digs, but nothing is connecting correctly. Jazz laughs.

“Prowler, I been undermining a telepath from within his own department. I've learned how to control my thoughts in a pinch,” Jazz says. He winks and throws him a memory of — _Prowl, dancing drunkenly — poorly — on a table, leaning clumsily towards the_ — that never happened.

“There is no need to be petty,” Prowl mutters. That is an old appearance for Prowl, and must be constructed from a real memory—

 _Prowl in the central hall, engrossed in a datapad, standing behind Sentinel and ignoring his ranting about_ — a common enough situation, Prowl does not know the specific _— preemptive invasion of Rodion underground,_ Jazz reminds him, smile at some point disappeared. “Petty? Mech, you walk up to me with a smile on your face and a hackbox behind your back and you wanna complain about petty?”

“You are an enemy combatant,” _93%_ , Prowl says, forcing aside the memory and reaching for core personality structure. If he can find solid ground ( _who are you_ ) he can trace out truth from there.

“What the frag was that?” Jazz twitches under Prowl, and Prowl can feel the prickle of feedback from tight interface, thoughts echoing between them as Jazz grasps back at Prowl (specifically, at the rush of semi-independent analysis).

“Tac net, ignore it,” Prowl instructs. He finds a structure beneath Jazz’s unhelpful conscious thoughts and forces a seam of memories open. _Why did you decline to accompany the depot mission?_

Jazz winces in discomfort under a disorganized rush of — _smoke — red insignia on low-skimming ships strafing down death and noise (don’t wanna hear them go down) — silence — a squad of anonymized Enforcers and a dead mech walking (don’t get alone that’s how they get you — safer with Prowler — won’t matter after) the message — tired — knew — trap, don’t get caught in your own trap._

Jazz laughs and forces out a grin as he again twists the memories into a contradictory heap. “I done a lotta things, Prowl. Whatever you’re looking for,” _(whether or not it’s true)_ “you’re gonna find it.” _You’ll never get to know why, not for sure._

Jazz hums, wriggling to settle between Prowl and the cell corner. “I take it the depot cleared out before y’all got there, then?” _Weren’t meant to strip it on their way out, but props for organization if they did._

Annoyance rather than proper procedure has Prowl burst across a selection of Hound’s message — images of _half a Decepticon scorch team in a burnt out village —_ terse coded comms that _they knew we were coming they know who we are — they’re all dead here._ “This was not a coincidence." Something, somehow, enabled the Decepticons to intercept their mission. "What did you tell the Decepticons?” Prowl growls.

Jazz stills. “All dead where? What happened?” He thrashes, angling to kick upright before Prowl pings him again. “I ain’t betrayed you!”

 _Lie, 93%._ Prowl has already run his analysis, and nothing Jazz says is verifiable enough for Prowl to update it.

“Oh.” Jazz groans with the inhibitor effect and slumps into Prowl’s hold. “That’s your trick, huh? Basically ignore everything I say. Smart. Nice.” _I didn’t give slag to Visrax (that’s Redline on the scorch team, reports to Visrax, frag both those guys). You ain’t gonna get it from my brain. What are you looking for?_

 _What did you tell the Decepticons?_ Prowl, finally, finds a keystone personality file in the mess, clutches tightly to it and gets — _medical and administrative details on subject 11 —_ nothing relevant, but he has a hold he can trace through.

 _How the frag would I have gotten a message out?_ Jazz says, shuffling memories around Prowl in a blur. “C’mon, Red’s got my movement logs, right? I’ll fill gaps with him, help y’all troubleshoot.”

Prowl falters slightly. Good acting (lie 87%) — what feels like hope from Jazz, that Red Alert will be able to corroborate his claims. “Red Alert has been out of commission recently.” (Red Alert runs at a delicate high performance and when he collapsed, Ratchet deemed it high risk to his health to bring him back up before medical facilities were adequately restored.)

Jazz tenses. “Out of commission since when?”

(Hound’s distress call indicated something _amiss_ at base, with high enough likelihood and consequence that command brought Red Alert back online.)

“He was discovered shortly after you lied to Inferno about your movement and left medbay.” Prowl takes advantage of Jazz’s agitation distracting him from self-defense and manages a(n impossible, convoluted) map of his core memory structures.

(“I didn’t _collapse,”_ Red Alert spat, “I have an override for that. I was _attacked!”_ )

“Wasn’t me! I was —” Jazz laughs, distinctly hysterical. “I was snuck into your office,” _where there’s no surveillance_ “— it _wasn’t me!”_

 _Who are you?_ Prowl rips open core memory and accesses a near association, gets — an _interrogation, pinned, a vicious mech clawing through his mind,_ and — it’s Jazz — no, Ricochet, _in a Con interrogation cell_ , in the wrong perspective, a memory of being interrogated by Ricochet. Prowl scrambles to a new node and gets — _movement assignments from Rotorstorm — incoming assault led by Rotorstorm._ There are too many memories. _What?_

 _Ooh, you got into my core. Nice,_ Jazz says. “What do you want, Prowler?”

“The truth,” Prowl snaps, shifting his weight to keep Jazz secured. He pries through memories, looking for a fault, finds himself in a _ship under fire, braced against a bulkhead when it tears and a Bot drops in almost on top of him — they’ve both got weapons ready but before either of them can fire, shrapnel flies down the hall —_ the memory glitches, the shrapnel glitches off course and hits the Bot and then he’s _— back at base, surrounded by blurred faces_. 

_Ain’t no such thing as truth in me,_ Jazz says. Prowl focuses back on the glitch, the dead Autobot, who is _Jazz_ — Jazz groans. “Yeah I’m still working on the story for that one. How’s Lero get from ship to base? I figure I could convince myself it’s blackout from damage, but it’s rough work and a close external look’s gonna find it real suspect.”

 _You stole memories from dead mechs,_ Prowl realizes. 

“Dying mechs, when I was doing the stealing,” Jazz says. “And not just memories. Gotta get structures and core files for a good profile. These are good profiles.” Jazz grins. “C’mon Prowl, figure me out.” _Underestimate me, I fragging dare you._

“A truth, then,” Prowl quits his attempt to find Jazz’s core, and focuses back on his thoughts — no, his actions, the motives and implications of his actions since he sent them the details for the depot. He is awash with overlapping and mutually incompatible answers, all registering as true. _Trust them — betray them — they’ll kill you — you’ll kill them._

“I didn’t do it Prowl,” Jazz laughs, squirms under the pain of a rough hack, backed into the corner he’s pinned in. _Shouldn’t trust that. What a fragging mess. Fun while it lasted._

Prowl finds a hitch in behavior — _Why didn’t you call for rescue?_ He pulls to the moment back in the interview room, when Jazz laughed and thought he was going to die. There is something there in his associations, a hook into a major profile. Jazz’s thoughts and decisions split and echo like his answers to Prowl’s initial questioning, but one memory strand is twisted in deeply by emotional importance — _running laughing through an Autobot base, getting a call out—_

“Oh frag, don’t —” Jazz twitches and the memory shudders — _that ain’t releva—_ Jazz’s strategy is to overwhelm and obscure importance, he is not actually able to stop Prowl from reading particular memories _— frag,_ Jazz laughs and shakes his head, twists to meet Prowl’s optics again and he highlights and tosses over the relevant memories. “Sure, fine.”

“I called for rescue last time I was captured, y’know?” Jazz uses Prowl’s brief occupation going over memories to lever himself into a slightly more comfortable position. _Caught by the Bots and they don’t know who he is — rough him up some, but comes round to thinking he’s safe, he’s lucky — gets a message out._ “Thought I was so clever, and got an SOS out to my crew.”

 _His crew — RC and Splice and Ats and Grey and Di and —_ “Turned out it was a trap.” Jazz shrugs and laughs hoarsely at Prowl. _Brilliant._ “‘Cause I’m dangerous on my own, sure, but not nearly so dangerous as I am with _friends_.“ _Just a mech, on his own, captured for bait._

“I lied before, by the way,” Jazz says. _Roller’s a common name — already knew that was a lie but —_ “Amica on a doomed ship. Amicae, actually. Oh, and not Neutral. Cons on a Con ship. Coming to rescue me, ‘cause I got a signal out. Signaled my whole crew right into a trap. They were _good,_ almost managed to rescue me anyway. Got close enough that I got to dig through the shipwreck and confirm almost every death myself.” _Done telling people to die for me._ “Brilliant. Got a whole spec ops ship in one go.”

Prowl stalls out for a dangerous moment. “Meister.” 

“Oh, recognize the story?” Jazz — _Meister_ smiles. He _lunges_ from under Prowl, spinning their positioning just as Prowl tries to yank free and get clear — _Meister would-could-should kill him_ — Prowl pings the inhibitor, but Meister’s ready for it, shoves his dead weight onto Prowl to keep him in place, unable to disconnect, Meister’s hand grabbing the interface connection.

 _Don’t frelling disconnect you complete glitch you’re gonna crash._ Highlighting flares up where Prowl is deeply connected into Meister’s core, skew and unstable firewalls that would assuredly (93%) crash Prowl (to medical emergency, 88%) should he hard disconnect.

Prowl withdraws to a balanced level of engagement and as soon as it is safe, Meister releases his shaky grip to allow Prowl to unplug. _Funny if he crashed but — what's happening — don’t hurt yourself Prowler_. 

Prowl does not disconnect. Whether or not Jazz’s — _Meister’s_ — concern is genuine, the physical threat is defused by the inhibitor.

Jazz laughs over the line, still lacking the coordination to do it physically. _OP didn’t tell? C’mon OP. Gotta tell your command these things._

Meister (technical neutral, regular contractor with Decepticon Special Operations) was a ghost story and a wildcard — smuggler before the war, captain of a ship that Prowl _knows_ went down ten vorn ago. 

_Meister’s fun. Assassinations, special deliveries, and daring rescues. Command plays it like he’s off doing secret slag most of the time, but really they’re not sure what he gets up to. The story that he’s loyal works for everyone, so I ain’t rocked that boat._

“You were confirmed dead,” Prowl says. There was nothing like a crew manifest, but they found his greyed body. _Meister died_.

“Maybe he did!” Jazz clumsily pushes up from Prowl, gives him as much space as the close cord connection allows. “Cons know the body count was only minus one, and maybe it was lil Saxo after all. Maybe I was,” _the staggering survivor of a shipwreck, stumbling through twisted metal and whimpering mechs, and there’s his captain, made it to the rendezvous, but he’s mauled, guttering fast, too fast to be polite when he grabs Saxo and passes him memories._

“Saxo really did survive the initial crash. Probably. Memories imply it,” Jazz says, flickering through memories of his crewmate, kid in inventory, similar frame, easily traded idents.

Jazz nods, nearly falls back onto Prowl in overbalance. “Profile on Saxo is perfect! Too bad his medical history don’t hold up.” _Saxo’s from Project Vehicon, he’s a sloppy recycle, and whoever had his sparkchamber before him got it cut clean in half, recyclers welded it cheap, and Saxo was never going to make it a vorn. He hurts all the time, and it’s given him a secret admiration for Thu—_ “You don’t need that secret,” Jazz says, and the memories shuffle out. “Point is, Prowler, you’re right and you’re wrong and you’re gettin’ distracted.” 

Jazz resettles over Prowl, braces a hand against him to lean in and look at his face. “Meister ain’t signed on in a long while, and I didn’t give slag on the depot run. But those Cons sure ain’t a slaggin’ coincidence!” _That’s Redline on the scorch team, he’s a tactical scout._ “Cons definitely know more than you’d want right now!” _They’re coming._

Jazz’s grin is mocking. “Hey babe, wanna run some numbers?” Jazz passes an _organized burst of — Visrax’s movement tactics, local personnel, maps, standard op timelines_. “How close are they?”

 _They’re coming here, 98%._ Prowl runs the extended analysis automatically. It is exactly what he excels at, finding troop movements (vanguard 58%, siege team 82%, and sweepers 91%, along Cattrax sectors Y5, T5, and J2-12, 85%), strategies (cut off line 3, intercept Green Squad, sneak to New Horizon, 67%, 78%, 94%), and timelines ( _they are already attacking, 99.4%_ ).

Prowl disconnects in a hurry, barely registers Jazz rolling off as Prowl shoves himself free and gets up. ::Optimus, Smokescreen, Ironhide!:: he calls at top priority. ::Units incoming, sectors Y5-T5-J2-12, code A, _now._ :: He has maps and troops and scouts to organize, and tac net whirrs to full capacity to deal with a coordinated Decepticon attack. 

The faint sound of laughter catches a thread of Prowl’s attention. 

Jazz is sitting on the floor where Prowl left him. He is laughing, dazed and shaking slightly.

“What’s funny?” Prowl asks, between rapid codes swapped on the command channel.

“Yeah.” Jazz shakes his head and looks up at Prowl with a grin. “Someone attacked Red, someone tattled on the depot. That don’t look good for me.”

“I don’t have time for you,” Prowl snarls, halfway to keying open the cell. He hesitates. That was _inconclusive._ Tac net is fully engaged in battlefield response, leaving him alone to figure out Jazz.

Jazz watches Prowl watch him, smile fading as he considers. “You should probably kill me.”

“No,” Prowl snaps. He stops wasting time and leaves. 

Jazz’s voice follows after him into the cell block, “Y’all are too soft and gonna die!”

“ _I know!_ ” Prowl shouts back without pausing.

\- 

The next 146 breems are an uncomfortable flurry of high-clock emergency coordination.

::—and recall Team 4. Jolt, you have 3.2 breems to reposition to T54.8.:: Prowl is very good at high-clock battlefield coordination. With Jazz’s provided data, they will be able to reposition to _survive_ the oncoming assault, though Founder and Pockback’s teams at least are likely (75%, 92%) overwhelmed and at least 3 teams will need to bunker in place with low survival chances. “Smokescreen, please take Teams 4 and 7 for your maneuver, variant B approved.”

“Yes sir,” Smokescreen answers, flicking a wing in acknowledgement without looking up from his own command. Smokescreen, Checkpoint, Optimus, Ironhide, Deftwing — Trailbreaker even, checking strategies from his medbay berth — too much Autobot tactical skill is concentrated in New Horizon base but at the moment it happens to be serving well. The Decepticons are moving in, and they are scrambling, but the timelines on recalls and entrenchments are within safe tolerance. They will hold, for at least two cycles.

In a lull, as the field reports settle into indications (94%) that the engagement will prolong into a siege, tac net churns down from ‘immediate’ to ‘high’ priority considerations. 

(Decepticon trooper unit along Cattrax line E, 3%.)  
(Jazz is using this chaos to escape, 98%.)  
(Ironhide available to reinforce near sector Y, 90%.)

Prowl swears silently and hastily dumps his remaining coordination data and tasks into passoff. He checks Jazz’s tracker, which indicates that he is already half a kil off base. (He is not even bothering to obscure the signal, relying on his 94% irretrievability once the outer area is solidly under Decepticon control.)

::Ironhide, are you available to run a glancing engagement with the sweeper squad in your area?:: Prowl asks as he throws his tasks into the general queue. “Smokescreen, I need a diversion in X33 that will allow a pursuit interceptor leaving from base now to make it through the perimeter. Use Ironhide.”

Prowl gets a ::Can do,:: from Ironhide and a “Should be easy — hey, where are you going?” from Smokescreen as Prowl shifts to alt and dashes for X33.

::Where are you going? Is my pursuit interceptor our lead tactician?:: Smokescreen asks. 

::I have a critical objective off-base,:: Prowl says. He revs hard to make it under a closing blast door. ::Lead relinquished temporarily. I am intercepting Jazz.::


	26. Chapter 26

New Horizon was built on the outskirts of Cattax, in a defensible position — which means Jazz is running over stupidly exposed ground for way too long. Any of the Bot squads charging through the area in emergency response would have caught Jazz easily, except that the Bots are distracted by being under attack, and the landscape is torn up enough to provide some hiding places, rippled ridges of glass and splashed desert craters from cybertronian heavy weaponry. 

The rough terrain protects him from cars following easily, and Jazz jumps fissures and climbs broken pathways to make the best of the pretty crippling lack of alt mode he’s got going on. The damage is old, but ongoing pops of distant gunfire and occasional bursts of explosion crest out over the roar of the wind. Whenever an engine or a spooky wind noise gets too close, Jazz ducks into hiding, plays it slow and as safe as he can while he’s creeping unarmed into a warzone alone.

Jazz is out of the way, off the main road, off the side road — hiding under the lip of a crater — listening to a single medium car speed by. There’s no reason to stop here, so Jazz has a bad fragging moment when he hears the car swerve and double back, redirecting to — yeah, frag, frag, that’s coming for him.

Some crazy fragger is chasing a Con into disputed territory alone. Jazz throws himself from the edge of the crater and bolts for the other side — he wants space enough to deal with his tracker, he didn’t think anyone would — who the frag is — oh Prowl, yeah, he’s pretty sure he guesses Prowl the moment before a bulk of black and white interceptor roars over the edge of the crater, skidding in with a cloud of dust and a tattoo of breaking shale. 

Prowl spins and drifts hard into the crater, narrowly avoiding a crash as he cuts Jazz off, shifting up to root while his engine is still engaged enough to catch in an arpeggio of hot-metal clicks — messier, angrier, and more dramatic than he would have expected from Prowl, but just as fast, determined, and final as he should have expected from Prowl.

Jazz skitters backwards, feeling for cover or at least distance from the mech coming up in front of him, landing in root with wings flared, gun up, frustration carefully contained to tense posture and a flat expression. “Heya Prowler,” Jazz says with a little wave.

“Jazz.” Prowl steps to cut off a route out that Jazz had been eyeing. “What have you done?”

“Little o’ this, little o’ that.” Jazz bobbles back in time with Prowl’s approach, dancing just out of reach, working hard to keep his buzzing energy from making him twitch or trip. There’s nothing, he’s cornered, he’s cornered, frag, frag. “Be more specific.”

Prowl’s glare narrows. “What are you—” Prowl looks between Jazz and his rifle, and lowers the gun immediately, like he hadn’t realized where he was pointing it. His mouth tweaks very slightly in long-suffering impatience. “I’m not going to kill you unless it turns out you really did betray us.”

“You don’t think I did?” Jazz is sketchy as frag and his memory archive is incoherent, anything Prowl concludes is probably fair.

Prowl jerks a shoulder an inch, his version of a shrug. “65%” he mutters.

“Ha! Cool, cool.” Jazz takes another step back, following Prowl’s step forward. “Say, Prowler, what the frag are you doing out here?” he asks. “You ain’t a field operative.”

“No, not so much.” Prowl nods in acknowledgement. “However, efficient assignment favors comparative advantage over abso—” Prowl cuts himself off with a slight pause, just as surprised to be babbling as Jazz is to hear it. “This is where I need to be. What are you doing out here?”

“I asked first,” Jazz points out.

“I don’t care,” Prowl counters. “What are you doing?”

Jazz laughs. “Y’know Prowler, I don’t fully know — what the frag happened? Away team’s out way past original timeline, and there are Cons in the area?” Jazz’s smile slips to a snarl and he takes a step towards Prowl. “My intel was good. I’m going to figure out how the _frag_ Visrax got my mission, my depot.”

Prowl stands his ground and frowns. “Foolish. Your chances of success were under 40% at a generous estimate. Do you even have a plan?”

Jazz shrugs. He gestures at his brand and flicks his visor to Kaon-red. “Find some Cons, spin them something about being an escaped prisoner with intel to pass on to higher ups, infiltrate. Yeah, yeah, risky, whatever.” He lets his visor go back to blue. “They’re my people. I gotta try to help 'em.”

Jazz tilts a look at Prowl. “You should do the same for yours.” 

He takes a careful step around Prowl. Prowl doesn’t stop him. “Y’all are in real trouble back there, they’ll want their lead tac.” 

Keeping Prowl in the corner of his view as he leaves him, Jazz pulls himself up over the edge of the crater. 

Prowl follows after, inspects the slope that Jazz just climbed up. “Base is under siege,” he says. “Even putting aside the low chance of safe re-entry, it is a difficult but uncomplicated defensive position. They can handle it.”

Jazz gets up and picks a path towards Cattax and his people, then stumbles and falls on his face as Prowl pings his inhibitor. 

“I am the only one who can help you,” Prowl says, from the crater.

Jazz waits in the dirt while Prowl climbs out of the crater and walks over. “Rude,” Jazz complains. 

“Please do not walk away while I am talking to you,” Prowl says, crouching into Jazz’s view. He — Prowl, who drove straight in on an open road, crashed in loud and started yelling — glances around the area like he’s suddenly concerned about exposure. The wind’s up, but Jazz doesn’t hear anyone near so he gestures an impatient ‘all clear.’ 

“We received standard check-ins, and notification of expected delay,” Prowl says. “Hound sent us a distress message at 310:71 last cycle, from an indeterminate location, indicating prolonged engagement with overwhelming forces. Follow up communication has been unsuccessful. A small party investigating the situation may be of significant tactical benefit.”

Prowl draws a toolkit out from under his plating and selects a specialized key. “The locations of interest are megakils away. A walking pace is untenable. Allow me to remove your t-cog lock.”

Jazz sits up, giving Prowl access and watching him skeptically. “You a skilled medic?” _You will not be able to transform or comm without skilled medical intervention_ , that was a memorable claim from Prowl.

“No,” Prowl says, inspecting Jazz’s t-cog lock and inhibitor system. “I made sure to learn this particular procedure as a contingency.”

Jazz grins and parts some plating helpfully. “Aw, thoughtful.”

“I am extremely thoughtful,” Prowl agrees without looking up. He carefully presses a cable to a cam and slips the key into Jazz’s systems. Prowl works through the procedure slowly, clearly unaccustomed — also precise, confident.

Jazz watches Prowl remove the lock — not worried that he’ll frag it up, more fascinated by the sublime focus in Prowl, Prowl’s calm inevitability as he unhooks parts and frees Jazz to transform. It’s beautiful. 

Prowl pries apart anchors, delicately draws out extended tendrils without jostling any of Jazz’s circuits, and Jazz’s t-cog reconnects under Prowl’s hand with a gratifying click. 

Jazz punches Prowl in the face hard as he can, transforms, and drives off at top acceleration — tears a spray of sand and lurches into sweet high speed away from Prowl.

Inhibitor pulse gets Jazz as he gets to the main road going fast, and his acceleration and steering cut out — his momentum doesn’t. He spins out wildly, scrapes painfully against a rock formation and teeters dangerously close to overturning on a ridge before he gets enough control back to steady out. 

Losing control while driving fast over broken roads is likely to kill him, so Jazz drives fast, mostly sure that Prowl will let Jazz escape over killing him.

Or, and Jazz kinda shoulda seen this coming, Prowl will just take to alt and chase right alongside. Jazz is faster and even after the spinout has a bit of head start and a fugitive’s casual attitude towards dangerous terrain. Prowl, it turns out, is fast enough, has better endurance at top speed, and a hypocritically _reckless_ willingness to follow Jazz over crazy ramps and tight turns.

After a few kils of dangerous noisy chase across torn up and exposed territory, it occurs to Jazz that socking Prowl and booking it was pretty dumb. Turns out Prowler’s very fragging good at chasing people. He doesn’t ping the inhibitor again. He does keep solidly on Jazz’s aft. 

Jazz has some maps and some established routes though the area — Ruintown, if you ask the locals — but he doesn’t know the place well enough to keep safe blazing through in a high speed chase, so he slows to a stealthier pace, quits churning up scree so he can listen and look around. 

The ruins of the city come up slow, skyscrapers melted to rough surfaces and covered with dust and sand, passing for natural rock formation until they get close enough to see the ghosts of streets and city construction. Scattered firefights still sound off, loud enough to route around, and as they get into slagged out Cattax, Jazz can hear more and more scrabbling of others doing the same — squatters and scavengers, types who live in ruins. 

Prowl still doesn’t ping him as they slow and he pulls up alongside. “That was unnecessary and unpleasant,” Prowl remarks.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Jazz picks a side path towards his Ruintown safehouse and transforms to root. Driving felt great after too long without, but they’ve gotta stay quiet and climb over rubble more than cars can. “Woulda been a better idea if you were less good at pursuit.”

Prowl joins him in root and follows down the lane with reasonable grace. “No,” he says, rubbing at the mark Jazz left on his face, “it would have been a much worse idea. I am your ally.”

Ally. Okay. Jazz pauses and reaches down to help Prowl up over a sheer bit of slipped street steel. “Shh,” he chides. “Sneaky, now.”

Prowl shuts his mouth with a look of faint reproach, which Jazz answers with an irritating smile, and they creep through collapsing alleys silently.

Mostly silently. “Where are we going?” Prowl asks as they slip through a narrow tunnel formed by two former apartment buildings melted together in curves of war-annealed metal.

Once upon a time, Cattax was a major city on GHX-9, a shiny center of commodity trade and transport, with a couple vorns of blended habitation. It’s only been a scarred skeleton of a city for under a vorn, but most of the corrosive gas and radioactivity has died back enough for the desperate or stupid — or sturdy or whatever, Jazz ain’t one to judge — to start salvaging a community hidden in the burned out buildings. 

“Wayhouse,” Jazz says. The neighborhood looks familiar — though there are only so many ways for broken buildings blanketed with sand to look — and Jazz tries to personally vet his contacts if he can, so he’s probably been by in person, but he’s mostly tracing off the intelligence data he keeps in hard memory. “Depot was on schedule to be clearing out and shutting down, should have been in regular contact with a resident here.”

Ruintown runs quiet, hiding suggestions of life behind old evidence of destruction, and Jazz is hoping the cold silence in what he knows is a populated neighborhood is people being smart as much as people being dead. Everything looks desolate ‘cause it’s meant to — his wayhouse is an old theater, but on the outside it’s just another slag-grey facade. He takes a few tries to get the right front and it’s the rad shielding that gives it away, Jazz is pretty sure his guy — contact 1346, handle of Mouse — is organic and fragile to the ionizing stuff.

“Why was the depot on schedule to be clearing out?” Prowl asks.

Jazz knows better than to let Prowl lead the conversation, so he says nothing. He finds the door under and behind a makeshift barricade, checks his instruction packet, pries aside a loose panel, and delicately buzzes the tiny hidden doorbell with the proper code. He settles back to wait.

After about half a second, Prowl says, “93% no one is alive to answer.”

Jazz frowns at him. “Chill Prowler, give ‘em a klik.”

Prowl doesn’t fidget, because Prowl doesn’t fidget, but Jazz can tell he would if he did. “Pardon me,” he says. “I am somewhat distracted by the idea that I may have abandoned my post to follow an unstable mech with no ability to think ahead.”

Unstable he’ll take, but just ‘cause Jazz doesn’t track ten master plans twelves steps in advance — Jazz leans over to lightly flick Prowl’s chevron. “Ey, that was your call. And.” Jazz thinks ahead. He’s great at thinking ahead.

“Look, babe,” he says. “How ‘bout this — plan, just for you: way I figure it, there’s a good chance we’ll be heading into Con field camp. If I can get Visrax’s codes and a couple breems on a properly tuned 73T console, we can order a recall under Visrax’s creds.”

Prowl flares slightly and starts to get mad about the flick before he glazes with thought. Jazz feels a weird echo of the constant tumult of detail processing — fragging ATS, what a passenger — he’d gotten in Prowl’s brain. “Misinformation would lead to at least sufficient confusion for a usable advantage, 87%. Near certain to require risky deviation from minimal survivable reconnaissance itinerary, I am not sure—”

“Cool,” Jazz says. “Might work, might not, we’ll see, we’ll see.”

It’s been a klik or five, Jazz can’t hear anyone moving inside, and it turns out the door’s lock is snapped like someone busted it open — sure, 93% no one’s alive in there — so Jazz opens the door and ducks in.

The door takes them to what would have once been a performer’s entrance, narrow and twisty changing and prop rooms. It’s warm and humid inside, the classic stuffiness of too many bodies and too little ventilation, with the extra wetness of an organic presence. There’s a bare-bones lighting system rigged up — Jazz leaves that be and instead takes a moment to retune his optics to the dark. 

Jazz clicks a long uneven hallway, surfaces muzzy, floor tacky in stretches with some kind of reddish watery liq— blood, obviously, blood, mixing and congealing with oil and energon, in odd layers.

Once he can see, once they get through the entranceway and start checking rooms, it’s pretty much all broken stuff and dead people — meat and chitin and metal all in a jumble. Drag marks, plasma burns, broken furniture, a barricade or two on a door for good measure. 

Jazz checks each room down the hall, up to the stairs to backstage, reflexively dodging and hopping anything that might leave a sign he came by. 

“What happened?” Jazz asks a room where the bodies of an Autobot — Overcross, Jazz met him at the Promise and looked him up, no one in particular — and a pair of aissevites have been shoved against the back wall to make space for something that involved dragging something heavy through a pool of ichor and energon. Yeah, okay, this is what an information leak looks like, that’s what happened, but _what happened?_ “What the frag happened?”

“Decepticon sweep squad of 4 to 8,” Prowl says from behind him in the hallway. He is stepping carefully where Jazz has stepped. “Dust on patched injuries on security indicates a relocation from an outside engagement. Decepticon control of local situation throughout.” 

Prowl points out various fluid spatters and drag marks. “20 plus or minus 5 taken captive in surrender, mixed background at first, security-trained escort executed on identification, civilians briefly interrogated on the spot, 3 mechanicals and 10 to 15 organics moved to a new location, likely for continued information gathering,” Prowl offers, looking over the scene.

Vorns of experience in forensics, right. Jazz looks over the slaughter — mostly looks like dead people to him, but Prowl makes sense. “Coulda found the house from the depot, sloppy evac, or a mole, then.” Could be anything. “How long they been dead?”

Prowl points to a goraaxian slumped in the corner missing his head, then to a greyed cybertronian leg. “Varies. Majority over a cycle, more recent single and—”

Jazz signs for ‘silence,’ and Prowl cuts off.

Prowler’d gotten to a technical reporting volume, talking loud enough to be heard clearly, and Jazz appreciates being able to hear him, but there’s a scuffing sound from upstairs that says someone else might’ve heard too. ‘Weird sound, upstairs,’ Jazz signs.

Prowl nods, tilting his head in the direction. It’s super quiet, a little rattle, a little creak, irregular like whatever did it is trying to hold still now. Prowl probably can’t hear it. Prowl turns back to Jazz and gestures clumsily. ‘8-9, danger,’ then ‘7-0, injured ally.’

There aren’t actually signs for percentages, but he gets the point across, and the numbers feel right. Jazz lets himself have a second to wish he could engage full stealth as he settles for sneaking carefully up the stairs towards the sound. ‘Cover my back,’ he signs to Prowl.

Upstairs has been refit more since its theater days, stage and auditorium chopped into a labyrinth of roughly bolted plascrete slabs and hanging cloth. Jazz spiders up a wall to avoid jostling noise out of a dead Autobot slumped over the main pathway, and manages to get visual on the source of the sound without a sign of detection.

In one of the plascrete cubicles — one of the bigger ones, built over center stage if Jazz has his map right — there’s a middle-aged goraaxian sitting in a corner, slumped like she’s exhausted, trying to control her breathing, and casting nervous glances around. When she shifts, Jazz hears the creak he’d been looking for, and when she breathes, he hears the rattle. Unarmed, looks like.

Jazz backs off before he drops down, so she gets approaching footsteps down the hall instead of a mech dropping from the ceiling. No need to be too scary, here.

The goraaxian is staring wide-eyed at the doorway as Jazz ducks through, and Jazz thinks her dark vision isn’t great because he can pick out the moment she makes him out in detail. Her ragged breathing gasps into a shrill shout and then to choking silence, and she tries to kick away, back — gets stopped by wall behind her and then winces heavily like the movement hurt.

Jazz spreads his hands and puts them up slowly, giving her a second to calm down. “Mouse?” he tries, softly.

She visibly wrestles her terror into an unconvincing threat snarl. “Wh-what do you want?” she growls. Her voice sounds bad, raw and kinda wet. 

Jazz steps closer and leans down some — there’s something up with her shoulder, she’s got it against the wall like — this close, this tuned, Jazz can hear her choked whimper of pain as she jerks back again hard enough to draw a creak from the wall behind her. He stops — she keeps twitching back and then shuddering at whatever pain it’s causing.

She’s — she’s looking at his brand, and Jazz is a fragging idiot. 

“Hey, hey, sorry, it’s okay, ain’t gonna hurt you.” Jazz drops a hand to cover the Decepticon brand and takes a half step back. 

“I’m —” Jazz gets her damage diagnosed — she’s bolted to the wall. Sharp strip of dead armor, pinning through her shoulder and into the wall behind. “I’m looking for—” Jazz shakes his head and laughs weakly. “Shelter from the storm.”

She recognizes the passphrase, registers it with a mix of confusion and hope-sharpened terror. “What,” she gasps, “is _the fucking point_ of codes the Cons know?” She — Mouse, gotta be Mouse — laughs and grins at Jazz. “No shelter here anymore, anywhere. Could you just kill me already?” She’s pulling away from Jazz so hard that there’s fresh blood starting to weep from her shoulder.

Jazz shakes his head, again. “Mousey, c’mon, I need you with me. Let’s get you out of here, get this sorted out, yeah?”

She flattens her ears and bares her teeth, hissing, then cuts off with a wide-eyed look over Jazz’s shoulder.

Prowl has to pull his wings in to fit, but Mouse doesn’t shy back from him so he can take the space between her and Jazz. He looks between them. 

He reaches over and flicks Jazz sharply on the nose — kinda _hard_ , enough to make Jazz jerk back with a scowl. “Jazz is an Autobot spy,” Prowl says. “You can trust him.” It’s as true as anything else. “May we assist you with extraction?”

Mouse looks up sharply at Jazz. Her tail lashes in surprise and doubt. “...Jazz?” she repeats, and yeah, Jazz had thought that might be a tougher sell than just ‘friendly,’ but with Prowl’s Autobrand — Mouse squints at Prowl. “You’re...”

Jazz tries to think of some interaction he’s had with her that he can reference, there’s gotta be something, he must have — before he can, Mouse groans.

“Oh fucking hell, if you’re for real —” She gestures for Prowl to come in closer so she can talk comfortably and Jazz invites himself along. 

She talks like there’s a time limit — “Got a code yellow while back, most of the way through it, hostile cybertr—Cons, Cons caught the route here, swept the depot, depot scattered mostly to the trap here and to— to—” She takes a desperate gulp of air and grimaces at Jazz. “Jazz, really? Jazz, okay, fuck, don’t fuck us, Jazz — station 4-1-delta-3. Cons knew the codes, were asking ‘bout the evac order, the Bots, the network procedures, I think they’re—”

The door opens downstairs. Jazz backs to the doorway, hears mechs coming in. 

Mouse talks faster, a hissing whisper at Prowl. “They’re holed up in the wind plant, left me here with a silent perimeter alarm as a trap for anyone stupid enough to try to help you need to hide, hide, hide!” She jabs her free arm towards a doorway — “false floor in there, _don’t fuck me, Jazz_.”

Prowl flares his wings — knocks the walls with a thump — looks between Mouse and the door. “Do you req—”

Oh there ain’t _time —_ Jazz dives through the doorway, figures out the trap door, grabs Prowl, and hauls him down into the black pit below.

Jazz gets the trap door shut and sealed — solid box, decent hiding in exchange for no air or signal — above them while the Cons are checking the downstairs rooms, they’re moving messy and arguing with each other out loud — not a well-organized squad — there are a lot of them, enough that it’s hard to count by voices. 

Prowl shifts carefully against him, trying to squirm a pinned wing out from under Jazz’s knee without making noise. It’s a little tight in the space, and the two of them are tangled very uncomfortably. Jazz has to roll to a crouch braced against Prowl’s thighs to get the wing free, and then he’s not balanced in a way he can — it’s — okay, some very careful fumbling later, they end up facing each other, legs bent and interlocked, both tilted over a bit. Jazz is on the bottom again, but he did grab and pull Prowl down so that’s on him.

The whole theater is uncomfortably hot and humid, and their vents make the hiding space unpleasant pretty quickly. Prowl painstakingly works a hand free enough to gesture something that isn’t but looks close enough to ‘safe - when?’

Hm. Jazz hears Redline’s voice, there, so it’ll depend some on how much the team is needed elsewhere, and how that balances against Redline trying to force a thorough search to practice proper Con discipline. Jazz shrugs.

Prowl frowns and reaches out to the inside of Jazz’s arm, to — to Jazz’s nearest data port, and Jazz flinches on automatic.

Prowl stops. His own wrist port cover is back, line ready to engage but not out. He watches Jazz with a blank expression that is maybe hiding some guilt.

Jazz meets Prowl’s look, shrugs, and deliberately relaxes his plating. Jazz prefers a breem or two to forget a rough hack before interfacing with the same guy, but needs must. He snicks open a port cover, offering a hardline connection.

Prowl draws his hand back. He rummages carefully under plating for long moments while Jazz listens to the Cons bicker downstairs. Prowl finds a tool similar to the piece he’d used to unlock Jazz’s t-cog, and he reaches gently towards Jazz’s neck, towards his main comms. He pauses before prying up the outer plate, watching Jazz with a question and an offer.

Frag, Jazz wants his comms. They’re harder to lock, Prowl won’t be able to take them again without cutting lines, and Prowl won’t take that risk, not while they’re out in hostile territory. Jazz misses his comms. Useful, useful, imperfectly secure comms. What are the chances their comms will be intercepted, he wonders? He can’t run the calculation. 

Jazz shakes his head, tucks Prowl’s wrist under his arm to get some ports together, and initiates the hardline. 

Hah, he’s never actually done a proper handshake with Prowl before! It almost feels over-formal for the mech he’s almost got in his lap right now.

 _Do you know the clear procedure?_ Prowl asks, voice strangely distant over a shallow connection.

 _Yeah, Red—Redline’s by-the-book,_ Jazz passes an op standard for a sweep squad. Someone in the sweep squad downstairs yells a threat directed at local wildlife. _Ain’t sure these guys do, though. ‘S fine, sit tight and try to relax, sounds like they’ve had a false alarm or two here before._

Some of the squad gets upstairs, but two of the ones downstairs start brawling. _They’re amateurs._ Jazz doesn’t know whose thought that is. _Get comfortable and wait for the all clear._

Jazz counts time, checking — not wishing, just checking — whether they would have had time to get Mouse and clear out before getting caught. No — or, only if Mouse had cooperated right away, then, maybe.

Jazz settles into the space and pulls out a flat bit of metal to work with. _Hey Prowler, wanna do me a solid and pull out whatever’s blocking me here?_

Prowl leans in, trying to see what Jazz is doing. Jazz is trying to do a partial transformation, trying to get the plate with his Con brand to flip like it can when there isn’t something blocking. He gets a hand jammed in to hold the seam open but the automatic inhibitor pulse drops him when he claws at the actual baffle.

Prowl’s optics narrow and trace out what’s happening. He pulls at his connection to Jazz’s arm until he can reach to grab something in Jazz’s chest and yank it out, wincing at the quiet clicking noise it makes. 

_Thank you, thank you!_ Jazz flips the plate to the blank side. With a side glance at Prowl, he pulls out the Autobrand he grabbed off a corpse and starts picking the bits of dead metal off the back. 

Prowl’s too sensible to sigh out loud, and just petty enough to sigh over the hardline. Jazz smirks and puts the metal bits down carefully so they don’t clink.

 _Your defection was not sincere,_ Prowl comments.

Jazz looks up. Prowl is watching him, hard to read, nothing passing over the line. Jazz smiles and tries on the Autobrand, checking the EM-triggered adhesion. _Knew you were smart_ , he says back.

 _You believed that Meister’s defection would not be accepted,_ Prowl says. 

That had been one issue, hardly the only one, but yeah. _Big name Con, Prowl._ Jazz pulls off the brand — scratchy, still too much dead guy on it — and resumes picking at it. _I done some nasty things._ Project Turnback, Nova-Q, Vos. _Kinda thought you’d be more upset, honest._

 _I appear to have encountered a major Decepticon intelligence asset in the midst of an ideological crisis,_ Prowl says. _Why would I be upset?_

Jazz shrugs. _Ain’t really in a crisis. No more ‘n an unstable mech with no ability to think ahead always is._

 _You were,_ Prowl starts. He frowns. _Ricochet_ , he says. _Was a waste of your talents and a poor fit to your personality. Why did you maintain two separate Decepticon identities, and live in the one you were miserable in?_

 _Hah. Two, yeah._ Jazz knows Prowl knows better at this point, and he’d rather talk about his side profiles than Meister. _Meister was never a live-in identity. Part of what keeps it secure, just using the name during particular jobs._ Wasn’t weird for him to sign off for a bit. Isn’t weird, isn’t meaningful that he’s stayed signed off. 

Prowl’s optics flicker. He nods. _How many identities do you have?_

Jazz shrugs thoughtfully. _Kinda a combinatorics problem. Let’s say eight._

 _Who were they?_ Prowl asks, fixed steady on Jazz. _All of your identities._

 _Frag, all of them?_ Jazz feels a little smile, and passes his laughter over the line. _It’s kinda—_ he shrugs under Prowl’s unblinking study. _It’s crazy convoluted and — honest promise — ain’t real interesting?_

Prowl frowns slightly at that — Jazz reads it as soft-wired routine instead of an actual reaction to the thought. They both sit for a bit and listen to the brawl downstairs escalate into the crack of a warning gunshot into plascrete and Redline yelling about decorum.

 _Who was Ricochet?_ Prowl asks. He’s staring. Jazz has stared with Prowl before, and Prowl’s intense, but there’s something extra that comes through when he’s pressed against him close enough to feel his vents and the idle of his engine, low-lit optics a handspan from his.

 _Saxo, Lero, Alley-Oop, Marshall,_ Prowl continues, _were real mechs. Dead, died near you._

 _Alley-Oop went by Tyger,_ Jazz corrects reflexively, pointlessly. _I thought he mighta just been confused, but I took his memories and he had a whole... his name was Tyger._ For most of the dozen joors he was alive. Buncha thoughts on place and purpose and truth that he never actually got to say.

Prowl nods once in acknowledgement. _Who was Ricochet?_ he asks again.

The question’s a surprise, because it’s not quite right. Jazz is almost sure it’s a real question — a question Prowl doesn’t already know the answer to. It’s basic interrogation technique not to ask those, a technique Prowl’s good at and a strong counter to Jazz’s constant lying. It makes it feel like Prowl’s not fishing for a lead — feels like he’s curious, personally interested. Jazz debates for a moment whether it’s a good idea to think of it as downright friendly before he gives it to himself. 

_No one_ , Jazz says, leaning into a settled position where he can watch Prowl’s tiny expressive movements. _Me. Ricochet ain’t a dead mech — or, Ricochet ain’t nobody but me._

Little bit of surprise, maybe? Nothing on Prowl’s face, but Jazz feels a shift in his weight. 

_Took the name early in the war — the rebellion then,_ Jazz offers. _Lotta people were doing it, and ain’t like I was using my own before. Felt like the thing to do._ Felt right. Some of his crew knew, but this story has been just Jazz’s for a while.

 _You were an Autobot,_ Prowl prompts. _A double agent under Zeta._

Jazz smiles at Prowl’s bright attention, because Prowler’s brilliant, and because sharing a secret can feel as good as hearing one. _Separate times, those. This was between the two._

 _Towards the end of the clampdown. I was a Bot, right?_ Jazz feels his smile fail, and he looks away. _Got sent out to the protests in Tesarus, as part of a_... _they called it a peacekeeping force. And maybe we did some of that._ It’s a bad set of memories, and Jazz has got nothing to do with his hands, and he’s twitching for something to do with his hands — he presses them together, catching Prowl a little where they’re connected.

 _But it was ugly, and uglier, and they pointed me at some... people, and told me to kill them._ It takes some effort not to look at Prowl with him so close, but it’s worth it. Jazz curls his lower fingers, forming the stylized gesture of a gun. _So,_ he says, _I took the name Ricochet, killed my teammates, and joined the Cons._

Jazz darts to look at Prowl after all, because this is important. _I don’t always hit where I’m pointed,_ he says, _ya dig?_

Prowl meets his gaze steady, and Jazz realizes he’s pointing at Prowl. He drops his hands. 

_Understood_ , Prowl says. _You do not tolerate unethical leadership._

That’s a way to put it, sure, if Prowl’s _trying_ to be annoying, and Jazz can _feel_ him putting together another recruitment pitch — Jazz shifts, sitting up and pressing Prowl against a wall. 

_Hey, you know what had ‘unethical leadership’?_ Jazz asks, unfriendly. _The fragging cartels._ There’s an easy political argument. _Of course you know that, you worked homicide._ _They were bad, and I kept on getting snagged into their evil slag and y’know, I wanted out._ He was never in the cartels, avoided that technicality by skill and by considerable luck.

 _I knew this enforcer._ Orion. _Always on me about how I could do so much more, I could do good if I came in and went white hat._ _Mostly ignored him, but fragger gets under your plating. And one bad day, this kid agent — different agent,_ Stepper, _happened to match my frametype — got tangled in my mess, got dead, and I saw a chance, took the chance._

_Hopped right in where he left off, my first dead identity, and I was a Primal fragging agent. And then I —_ Jazz laughs silently because he doesn’t know why he’d tell any of this, here, now, anywhere, ever, and because he doesn’t think he can stop. _Hey, Prowler, can you run me a number? How many times can you try to pick the right side before you gotta give it up as a bad job?_ Jazz doesn’t do convictions, anymore. Ain’t cut out for it, after all.

Prowl’s missed some vents while Jazz was talking, Jazz thinks. He’s too-still, struggling to emote through whatever’s churning through his overpowered systems. Jazz watches him intently, tense, almost scared of his own reaction to whatever Prowl’s got.

 _You are not,_ Prowl says, and his plating twitches against Jazz, broadcasting that anxiety that crops up whenever Prowl thinks about his words, _meant to give up._

And yet he has. Jazz shrugs and slumps against the wall.

The Cons finally get to the detail checking on the second floor — a light frame clangs up to the closet above them and walks away without even clicking the structure. “Cleaaaar,” he groans. “Hey, squishy, anyone come by?”

Mouse doesn’t give an audible response. Elsewhere in the theater, Redline scolds someone for losing their partner in what is meant to be paired searching.

 _What is your real name?_ Prowl asks. _Before Ricochet, before the dead agent, when you were not Meister._

Jazz looks up, and Prowl’s still staring — dimmer, a bit, not much. _Jazz_ , he says.

Prowl frowns. _‘Just your net handle,’ you said. And unregistered, besides. Who were you before?_

He did say that, didn’t he? Jazz frowns. _Don’t matter._

 _No, not to our current situation._ Prowl looks away. _I am simply curious. You are not required to answer. I did not mean to pry._

It’s — is that a peace offering? Jazz is unused to being the one studying Prowl while Prowl looks down. 

_ZRF9-23XR._

Easily readable surprise in Prowl, at that. He looks up and Jazz smiles at him. _Not a great one, as names go. I really am Jazz. Honest as anything._

Prowl smiles back. _I see._

Two Cons check the room, the light frame from before joined by a medium who’s limping a little and revving with irritation. “Clear, clear, still clear,” the medium yells down the hall. “Where’d your friends go this time?” he asks towards the corner where Mouse is pinned.

“You already killed all my friends.” Her voice is weak, even shakier than it was talking to Jazz. “Hardly my fault you don’t know how to set a good sensor alarm.”

“Ughhh we could be at base,” the light frame complains. “False alarms are the worst. Frag this, we already got everyone here.” Then there’s a burst of gunfire and a wet noise, and Mouse’s little rattling breaths cut off. 

Jazz’s claws flick out and he tunes audio up to count hostiles — six? hard to tell through the walls of the hiding place — on threat-responsive instinct — just reflex, he’s not an idiot, he doesn’t need Prowl’s sudden burst of — _Engagement dangerous without gain; reveal disadvantageous —_ to keep him still. 

_Wait for the clear,_ Prowl says, and Jazz pulses back a snappish affirmative.

“Clear, clear!” Someone calls from another room, then gets smacked with an annoyed huff. 

Redline calls the all clear the way you’re supposed to, silent on comms, Jazz only knows he’s done it because the Cons finally start to leave.


	27. Chapter 27

Prowl can hear fine. He has good hearing. He defers to Jazz’s (98%) superior sense of the situation and holds as quiet as he knows how for several breems of silence until Jazz calls the _Clear_ and nudges him to unlatch the trapdoor. 

Still connected wrist to arm, Prowl follows and checks over the organic alongside Jazz. Neither of them has sufficient medical knowledge (83%) to assist a critically injured goraaxian. Not that it matters, Jazz’s agent (94%) is very clearly already dead.

 _What is station 4-3-delta-1?_ Prowl asks.

Jazz’s arm tenses, and he looks up from the dead organic to their connection. Prowl’s arm is extended, fingers wrapped carefully around Jazz’s arm to stabilize. It is somewhat unwieldy, fragile ports and cords vulnerable to jostling, and Prowl is unsure whether Jazz forgot that they were connected ([45]5%). Silent secure communication may still be worthwhile. Prowl draws his processor engagement back enough for Jazz to disconnect if he so chooses.

Jazz steps closer to Prowl, catching Prowl’s weight and linking their arms to comfortably pick their way back out of the wayhouse. _Just a Ruintown neighborhood closer to the highway,_ he says. He sends a rough datapack, brief demographics and a post-bombing map of part of Cattax, a known settlement in the sprawl of the former city. _Organics, mostly goraaxian._

 _It’ll be fun, everything’s sparkling-sized_. Jazz’s words feel flat, even though Prowl has already acclimatized to the odd distance of an outer-layer hardline connection with Jazz. _Adorable,_ Jazz says, holding and pulling Prowl’s hand to help him hop over the pooled fluids on the floor without leaving tracks.

Decepticons are, in stated doctrine and in practiced culture, thoroughly anti-organic. Jazz is not a typical Decepticon (in any number of ways). _You were high in Decepticon hierarchy, and you work in intelligence,_ Prowl says.

 _Casualty rate what it is, just stayin’ alive’ll get you high up in hierarchy_ , Jazz says (misrepresenting both his skills and Decepticon politics) as he twirls Prowl to maneuver them out the front entrance, back into the harsh daylight. He flicks a dented and bloody vibroblade from under his armor and starts to gouge lines into the door. _Also, don’t work in intelligence, don’t work for any of y’all._

 _No matter how unofficial your work has been._ Prowl winds up backed against the door and leaned very near to Jazz’s handiwork, to minimize the discomfort in their connection. From this angle he can easily watch Jazz’s grim expression. _There is no way (96%) you have genuinely missed that Decepticon policy is actively and profoundly hostile to basic respect for life. That we are the better option._

The knife jerks. _It’s just a hideout raid. Happens everywhere, all the time._ Jazz makes a face, finishes his drawing quickly and shoves away from the door fast enough that Prowl lurches to avoid disconnection. Prowl manages (is allowed) to keep up and land a glance back at the door as he trips alongside Jazz. Jazz has carved a Decepticon brand, an indicator for anyone after them seeking shelter. ( _No shelter here_ , Mouse said.)

Jazz catches Prowl’s stumble, holds them steady. _Ain’t no good guys in a war_ , he says, disengaging and pulling apart their connection. He starts off into the ruins without looking back at Prowl.

Prowl runs to cut him off. “That is a _sanctimonious_ oversimplification,” he says, bad wing twinging in pain from the strain of an involuntary flare so soon after being drawn in cramped, “that is suspiciously self-serving given how uniquely you personally are able to avoid _responsibility_ in this war.” He fights to keep his volume down, and almost loses his words choking in static for the effort.

Jazz’s visor brightens and he pauses a step. “Made ya mad,” he comments, tilting his head at Prowl with a fake smile. He looks away, shakes himself with a loose shrug, and continues walking. “Not the place, Prowler. Save it, we probably just triggered the prox sensors again.”

The patrol will not return (78%) and they will avoid it if it does (98%) but Prowl uses the time and distance to regulate his venting back into a normal pattern. With everything else he is, it is so, so _dangerously_ difficult to remember that Jazz is not, truly, an ally. When they reach a 5%-detectability radius, he grabs Jazz’s shoulder.

Jazz slips easily from his grip and spins to face him with a fixed smirk, walking backwards at pace to maintain distance.

Prowl waves an inhibitor key from his kit. “Let me unlock your comms,” he whispers in the quiet of the dead city.

Jazz stops walking, and his expression turns thoughtful. “That safe?” Jazz asks, glancing around their dusty boulevard. A brief tingle of ultrasound brushes Prowl’s doorwings, and Jazz hops into the shade of a broken wall. As Prowl follows, Jazz drops a shoulder and transforms his pectoral plating (more than he should be able to) to reveal the dull lumps of electronic baffles and inhibitors.

“The area is largely jammed. Short range comms will be unusually secure.” Prowl takes a moment to review the procedure before carefully plugging the key into a delicate circuit juncture. He steps methodically through motions he does not (does not need to) understand, pushing and pulling at warm metal as pieces come off until Jazz abruptly leans in, tucking his chin over Prowl’s shoulder and pressing their comms systems into light contact.

A touch range channel identification buzzes into his comms, and Prowl accepts. 

::Thanks babe.:: Jazz stands up smoothly, bracing a hand on Prowl in passing so that he does not knock him over. Jazz flashes him a smile and stretches as he settles his plating back into place. His comms channel and routing is encrypted to paranoia, and Prowl finds it amusingly in keeping with Jazz’s personality. There is a distinct bounce in his step as he moves off over rubble again.

Prowl follows Jazz through the streets with half-attention, studying the information Jazz gave on their next destination. ::92% there will be a cybertronian-targeted trap on the current approach. If they have any tactical sense, it will be at the juncture of... Eiutae and Aa’ttin Streets.:: (Local names, not optimized for tactical communication.) ::This station is part of your network?::

Jazz gestures a casual acknowledgement and glances back with a shrug. He pauses a moment, watching Prowl hop over rubble like he is fighting an urge to help. (Prowl is aware that he frequently walks with a distracted aspect; he is still paying sufficient attention to his surroundings and does not require help.) ::Bot aligned, actually,:: Jazz says. ::Kinda. I mean, organics with enough sense to stick with the side that puts effort into not killing ‘em.::

Prowl frowns. ::How the frag do you think you’re not an Autobot?::

::It’s not—:: Jazz says, shrugging ambiguously and hopping over an unstable span of road. ::My network is mine in the sense that I want ‘em to be okay, not in the sense that they owe— that we’re... we ain’t... they’re neutral okay?::

::You are not a neutral actor,:: Prowl says before he properly considers it. His tone is too frustrated to be diplomatic. Alienating Jazz is a bad idea, he is speaking impulsively. ::You make decisions that have consequences.:: Perhaps he should stop, but Prowl has never had a confident sense of interpersonal decisions. 

::You have — had — have connections and skills. You have power. With our resources, you could have a major impact, and you are choosing not to.:: Prowl pauses in the road, judging whether or not he can clear the span Jazz just jumped, and decides to step around to be safe. 

He glares towards Jazz, gets brief optic contact when Jazz glances back. 

::PYG-14, Camtracer, the Red Run, Faro Delta,:: Jazz says, visor pointed away, optics (85%) tracked back to watch Prowl.

A list of Autobot errors, and, incidentally, _not an argument._ ::Atrocity,:: Prowl says, fighting the irritation he can hear in his tone. ::War criminal, disproportionate use of force, tragedy,:: he ticks off. Jazz is testing him somehow, naming famous incidents. (He does not know the correct answers.) ::Faro Delta, at least, was... not as bad as it could have been.::

Jazz laughs, out loud over the comm, acting the motion in silence, physically. ::My ship picked up thirty survivors from Faro Delta, and every single one _begged_ for a mercy kill when my crew got their vocalizers online.::

::It could have been worse,:: Prowl says. ::The vesicant was already breaching. We called ceasefire and retreat as quickly as we could. I was support on the dispersal calculations. We achieved a casualty rate _32%_ of initial projections. It was _good work_.::

Jazz spins on his next step to face Prowl for a moment, the lingering grin broadening to show sharp teeth. ::Nope! You had it the first time, Prowler. It was a tragedy.::

::It was both, and _idiotic_ on top of that.:: Preventable error from poor attention to logistical control, horribly common in an army scraped together largely out of civilians. ::Competence is in short supply, and without it, people _suffer_.:: 

::You are brilliant, and resourceful,:: Prowl says, and he does not mean it as a compliment. ::You sh—could be making a difference.::

Jazz’s smile fades and his steps slow, allowing Prowl to catch up. He studies Prowl, then he looks down to his hands. There is a knife (another knife, small laserblade) in his hands, and he tosses it idly. 

::Y’know,:: Jazz says. ::I think I could. Y’all — Bots are in a pretty tight place these days, ain’t gonna last much longer like this. But I got this line on Altihex — would want two more sets of wheels on the ground, and a good tac to check my op proposal, but there’s this hilariously insecure central refinery, and —:: He snatches the knife out of the air and uses the flow of the motion to flash a sunny grin at Prowl. ::Betcha the two of us could shut down the whole sector 2 munitions supply with an orn for plan and transit.:: 

He nods and slashes at the air with his knife, dancing forward and turning to face Prowl. ::Not a clinch victory, but it’d stall out the Con advance through the Sorral Nebula, give enough edge for a clever strategist to buy time, enough time for the next bit. You’re brilliant, Prowl, you could do a lot with me. We could turn this Bot defeat into a stalemate.:: 

Jazz shakes his head like he’s laughing, still without making a sound. He stashes the knife and gestures expansively over the bombed out skyline and rubble-filled streets around them. ::A thousand more years of this war, how’s that sound to you?::

It sounds awful, of course. Prowl has never been to Cattax before today, but he knows with deep familiarity how to pick through ruins, recognizes with trained certainty exactly what munitions left what marks, and can model how many people likely died here in the city’s final days (180,000). He does not like war, and he has no difficulty understanding a reflex to avoid it.

Jazz walks on. His sigh is small, and Prowl only notices it because Prowl is very observant (and is fixing his unsteady attention on Jazz). ::Okay, Cons are worse,:: Jazz says with a shrug. ::And frag, I knew it was gonna be kinda bad when I threw in. Weren’t like it was a gentle fragging movement — I figured, gotta be done, old cybertron was bad already. And I ain’t dumb, Cons are gonna be bad — and! And, once upon a time, when I was the kinda dumb that makes you join a revolution, I woulda said, we gotta do what we gotta do to fight ‘em, gonna be worth it in the long run. But, Prowler, I was wrong.::

Finally, they reach a stretch of wide road, intact enough to take a vehicle mode. Jazz stops at the side of the road. ::Bots are better.:: He looks at Prowl and smiles, spreading his arms helplessly. ::But nothing is worth this nightmare we’ve made.::

Prowl understands the reflex to avoid war. He understands that it is _easier_ to _opt out_ of consideration of policy impacts and responsibilities as if _avoiding_ conflict _resolves_ it. He fights to keep the noise of his revving engine (audible distance 17 mets) at a stealthy volume as he stumbles over the space between him and Jazz. ::It _is,_ :: Prowl says. ::It is _worth_ — the universal casualty rate with uncontested Decepticon action would be immediately and immensely higher and only drop below current casualty levels when there is _no one left to kill.::_

Jazz steps back, shifting weight, visor light flickering in an odd stumble, before he leans towards Prowl, close (or recklessly dramatic, 23%) enough to whisper. “Don’t you fragging pretend you can just _calculate_ your way to the right thing here, Prowler. You’re fragging amazing at counting, but you’re terrible at people, and can’t just _optimize numbers_ to make it right.”

Prowl, through force of will, does not move. “I have to optimize numbers — _the numbers are people_ , Jazz!” Prowl snaps back, and vocal control is even harder off comms, but he does not know how to make Jazz _listen._ He is terrible at people, and he does not convince anyone of anything, and Jazz is _right_ , his war impact calculations are an abstract and nightmarish thing, difficult to convey at the best of times, and now, shaking with frustration inches away from Jazz in a ruined city, he cannot find a clear exposition, he cannot make an argument, he can only stammer, “Megatron is —the Decepticons are —” Prowl’s vocalizer crackles with the effort of keeping his volume low, and he snarls and feels himself slump, unable to pose at proper engaged body language. 

Prowl steps back to get a cool vent, distance. It does not help very much. War is _awful._ It simply happens (>99%) that all the current alternatives are somehow worse. ::Everyone is dying,:: he says, ::and I can’t stop it on my own.::

Jazz stands where Prowl left him, exactly 6 mets away. Prowl cannot read his emotions and finds the lack of information comforting. 

After 1.6 kliks, Jazz steps towards him. ::Hey,:: he says. ::C’mon, Prowler.:: He reaches towards Prowl, and Prowl watches his arm draw near, uncertain. Jazz falters, arm half-extended, leans and shifts weight and aborts a few motions before he eventually goes for Prowl’s hand, slowly enough for Prowl to dodge. Prowl lets Jazz take his hand. 

“C’mon, Prowler,” he says, and his voice is heavier than his comms, in a way Prowl cannot describe. “I’m with you. Stay with me here.” He pulls lightly on Prowl’s hand to guide him back to the road, where he transforms to alt. ::Let’s go see who’s still alive in West Ruintown, ‘kay?::

-

The area is mostly accessible in vehicle mode, and Jazz and Prowl soon approach station 43δ1. Jazz, as the acting scout and contact, takes lead, and when he slows to a stop in the middle of the road, Prowl stops a pace behind him. He does not ping Jazz with a potentially distracting query, instead trusting that any relevant information will be offered unprompted.

::Eiutae and Aa’ttin, up ahead there,:: Jazz says. ::Tac point B3, if I ever get ‘round to rewriting the map for you.::

Yes, Prowl knows how to navigate on a map. He knows that is where they are. There is no visual indication of a trap here (trap at the juncture ahead, 42%), and Prowl would have recommended earlier diversion from the main road to avoid the juncture had that been the intention. 

Jazz transforms up to root with a jarringly audible sequence and comes out of car mode crouched in the street, claws pressed delicately into the ground. He grins. ::Hey, I think Hound’s still alive!::

There is no visual indication of anything unusual in the area. It is, in fact, clear and clean to a statistically unlikely degree. Prowl focuses on the windblown dust in the area, picking out the slight glitching that happens when Hound presses the edges of his abilities. ::Hologram?:: 

Jazz pings an affirmative. ::Hologram, over two balconies of armed goraaxians, at 80 and minus 20 degrees, and a _juicy_ EM pit right where you said it’d be.:: He stands up and stretches, laughing softly. ::Ingenious bitties, _that_ is how you do against war machines four times your height.::

Jazz speaks quickly and moves dramatically, so that he plausibly appears to be casually transforming, until he turns the motion into an excited wave. “Hello, hello!” he calls, in an unusually accented variant of local Gehax dialect.

Sixteen locally-standard-sized (sparkling-sized, roughly) organics flicker through the edges of hologram-augmented hiding places. They are all braced carefully, ready to return to cover at a moment, armed with modified (caliber-boosted, power rerouted to external draw) cybertronian-grade weaponry that will damage enough to be dangerous if a cybertronian in a light-armor root mode (Jazz) is not careful. 

Jazz turns between the nearest visible organics and spreads his hands theatrically. “We have been charged with a sacred quest!” he says brightly to a scarred goraaxian with a rifle pointed at him. “Go and tell your master that if he will give us food and shelter for the night, he can join in our quest for the star blaster.”

What? The what? In the tense silence, Prowl shifts into reverse, ready to carry Jazz on a getaway at a moment’s notice.

Someone hidden in a doorway off to the left laughs. Another (armed, injured) goraaxian leans into view and waves a crutch at Jazz. “Well,” he shouts. “I’ll ask, but I don’t think he’ll be very keen. We’ve already got one, you see?”

Got one what? What? Jazz spins (smoothly, but much more slowly than Jazz is able to move) to grin at the new goraaxian and laughs, before turning to frown at another. “What’d he say?”

That goraaxian flinches and ducks back into hiding at Jazz’s attention, but the aissevite next to him straightens. “H-he said we’ve already got one!”

Is this a code phrase? It is terrible. 

Jazz grins again and winks at the aissevite, then schools himself into a serious pose. “Well... ah, um...” He makes a show of scrunching in confusion and turning to Prowl. “Boss, they’re already good here.”

::Jazz, what is happening?:: Prowl should have known better than to expect relevant information unprompted. 

Jazz steps back from Prowl with a hop of surprise. “C’mon boss — Squamata? Biggest vidcast on GHX this decade?” He frowns and crosses his arms. “Do you actively avoid culture —” his visor brightens in alarm and he holds up a hand. “Wait, wait, don’t answer that I think you’ll break my heart.”

Ah, a cultural reference that Prowl does not understand. Very well.

“Anyway!” Jazz drops back alongside Prowl and faces the gathered organics (half of whom for some reason have put aside their weapons, and appear to be climbing closer to peer at Jazz).

Jazz pats Prowl’s roof like he is showing affection to a pet. “Sorry to drop in unannounced, we’re...” Jazz trails off and frowns down at Prowl. “Actually, do answer. Boss? Oh shoot!” Jazz jerks away from Prowl and looks around, looks back up at the organics. “Hey wait, this isn’t just someone’s car, is it?”

Prowl takes the hint and transforms up to root, because the most dangerously placed goraaxian has put down his sniper rifle and is laughing, and the (84%) best course of action is to follow Jazz’s inane script. He frowns at Jazz to indicate how he feels about this.

Jazz jumps and flares plating like he’s startling, and more organics poke their heads out of the illusion with scattered laughter. 

“Whew.” He flashes Prowl a smile, and turns to a goraaxian who has walked forward to a rough point position. “Sorry for the scare everyone, I’m Autobot Jazz, and this is — bossman, tell me you integrated Gehax.”

Prowl squints over the scene, trying to pick out major and minor threats. In the formal variant of Gehax he has, he says, “My designation is Prowl.”

Jazz beams, and immediately finds the analogous linguistic construction for, “Prowler here and I are tryna help out some teammates and evacuees who ran into trouble ‘round here not long ago. Anyone we can talk to ‘bout that?”

The goraaxian on crutches, the first one who had responded to Jazz, flicks his ears and sits himself on a broken wall. “Yep, probably! Dwsiit, here. You got codes?”

“I got codes!” Jazz prances to kneeling next to the organic (Dwsiit? Prowl does not know what normal Gehax designations are). “You got space in a garage?”

\- 

A relay of Jazz’s contact(s? there are so many tiny people running around) and local organizers guide them into salvaged upper-level space, the most secure cybertronian-accessible building the community has reclaimed. A parking garage.

Hound is in the garage, seated against a front corner that gives him some view of the street while mostly hiding him. He is field-patched, solid tan with dust, and stuck in root mode due a missing leg. 

“Hound,” Prowl greets, studying the view of the street to estimate what Hound is able to see and do from here.

“Sir!” Hound smiles at Prowl for a moment. “Are—” His optics narrow and he flips off the safety on his gun at the sight of Jazz. “Sir?” he asks (Prowl, presumably, though he is still looking at Jazz).

“Hey Hound, glad you’re alive, watch where you’re pointing that, yeah?” Jazz waves carelessly as he walks by and picks a defensible corner in the garage to sprawl himself seated. “You got my pin—” Jazz slumps and his voice cuts off into a garbled giggle as Hound tests the continued function of Jazz’s inhibitor set. “Yeah,” Jazz mumbles. “Y’all debrief then, and just let me know where we going when ya got it figured.”

Hound cautiously puts his gun aside and looks to Prowl for confirmation.

Prowl unsubspaces an appropriate datapad and nods.

::Just me and Hopper here from the original mission, plus about sixteen organics from the depot, all injured,:: Hound says. ::We made it to the trade post fine, made friendly contact, then got hit by an attack timed to confuse everyone there.::

Hound, it turns out, lost his leg during the opening salvo of a surprise Decepticon attack on the trade post. Grouped with the rest of the wounded, Hound was able to protect and hide a mixed group of Autobot and trade post personnel and watch all the surrounding residents and most of the trade post be killed, with remnants corralled as prisoners into their own buildings. He managed a brief signal out ( _they knew we were coming they know who we are_ ) on the trade post transceiver. 

The area is under Decepticon control. The Decepticon presence seems to have been established sometime after the train shelling (77%), but before the supply run team reached the trade post (93%). A scout (42%) or a mole (65%) managed to signal to the nearest Decepticon base (the Inevitable Advance, under Visrax) that Autobot movement in this area was worth intercepting, as well as pass detailed codes and positions allowing organized capture.

Mirage and the bulk of the survivors headed for a safehouse, while the injured hobbled to the nearest friendly station, here. The safehouse team was meant to attempt to find reinforcement, or at least pass information, and the injured would regroup with them as able.

::Regrouping with the safehouse team will not be possible,:: (99%) Prowl says. He nods, feeding quality information into his grim working strategies for the situation. ::They are all dead or captured. Jazz and I are your reinforcements.::

Hound twitches slightly and his optics brighten (to a normal level, he is running underpowered, 89%) before he nods stiffly.

“You have done good work. Thank you, Hound.” Prowl looks around the parking garage uncomfortably, speaking aloud for the benefit of the ragged group (Hound’s group of survivors, plus local leaders or strategists) that has at some point gathered around them. “Can you provide more detailed maps and troop positioning details?”

“Um, yes sir, I...” Hound nods, gesturing away Hopper and a few angry (?) organics when they try to interpose between him and Prowl.

Prowl passes Hound a report dataslug and an emergency ration and settles against a pillar to rest, and to think.

::90% the trade post was found first, and the wayhouse was traced from there but attacked separately, not from tailing the retreat.:: Prowl offers to Jazz.

::Yeah, copy. Definite mole, trap before they got there.:: Jazz is sitting nearby, speaking with — Jazz is sitting up, surrounded by (being perched on by) and apparently getting a similar version of events from a collection of organics with _no sense of information security_. He has an aissevite standing in his hands, carefully held up to have a conversation eye-to-optic.

Prowl sighs internally and starts going over Hound’s detailed report as soon as it is ready. (They will want to, they should do trade post recon and forensics, [6-8]0%, prisoner assistance [4-9]{k}% direct infiltration of the wind plant(? 78%), call retreat ({4x|85% s.t. j})...)

“Don’t forget to fuel.” Jazz knocks lightly against Prowl as he sits alongside him. He has two crude (locally provided) cubes in one hand, and a delicate handful of tiny flimsies in the other.

Prowl blinks and looks up, again uncomfortably aware that time has passed and people have moved around him while he was thinking. Hound is in a low power standby, with Hopper and two organics standing a solemn watch over him. The local organics appear to have mostly departed, leaving a collection of miniature intelligence materials with Jazz.

Jazz is able to efficiently establish comfortable rapport with near-strangers. While impressive, this is not a surprise. Prowl inspects Jazz’s easy smile and judges it genuine (inasmuch as anything about Jazz is, 96%).

“You like organics.” 99%

Jazz puts a cube in Prowl’s hand with a nudge. “Not as a hard rule,” he says. “They can be real slaggers — well, real shitstains, some of ‘em.”

Prowl suspects (91%) that Jazz defaults to liking all people, almost ‘as a hard rule.’ Still, including organics as people is noteworthy. “You like goraaxians,” he amends, ready to specify further but hoping Jazz will not be obnoxious enough to require it.

“Yeah,” Jazz admits. He stretches and shrugs. “I'm a huge fan of their vidcasts, traditional dances, and ability to not have a civil war for hundreds of years that destroys their and countless other planets.”

Prowl does not have a response to that, and his attention slips to the flimsies in Jazz’s hand, which (89%) contain additional information he will want to incorporate. There are Autobots still alive (87%) in the trade post (56%), which is not necessarily a soft target, but has a vulnerable path that he and Jazz—

Jazz passes the flimsies over, flourishing a light pen set to red as he does, to indicate that notes in that color are his. ::Got a plan, Prowler?::

Decepticons have control of the area. Most of their known allies are dead or captured. Next steps will be difficult, high risk, and uncomfortable, but Prowl finds having information, however bleak, preferable to the alternative. He can make a difference here, taking a tactical role.

Jazz watches him, with the odd bright expression he sometimes directs at Prowl.

Prowl nods at him in polite thanks. ::I will.::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a little heavy. 
> 
> But also, I had to mentally commit to the actual size and scale of goraaxians, and I did a little googling to get a [visual reference](https://www.weekendnotes.com/im/007/02/day-trip-to-wildlife-hq-big-pineapple-woombye-priv9.jpg) of Jazz interacting with aliens.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw this one's kind of violent. um. yeah, perhaps a slightly late note, they are now in contested territory, there will be lots of implied violence and some explicit violence from here on out.
> 
> (I have little intuition on tagging, just lmk in comment if you'd like a headsup on anything)

Jazz is never doing route construction again.

Okay, that’s a dirty lie — frag, he’ll probably have to pick the exit, but he’s not doing route construction now, because Prowl’s _so good_ at it. They’re going to the depot — it’s closer, probably (90%) has surviving prisoners under low security, and it looked like it’d be an easy in. The thing though, that Jazz knows about easy ins, is that it’s less about the target itself, and more about having good intel, well-applied. They’ve got decent intel — Hound’s impressions during retreat, maps and spotter notes from the locals, and Jazz’s depot info and Con identification — and Prowl compiles it into a security map, turns it into an _easy_ in.

It’s all accurate, too — when they're close enough to get visual on the depot itself, Prowl updates and simplifies probable stations and routes, and passes them back over hardline. _Ready to enter?_

 _Enter? Frag mech, we’re already in!_ They walked through the broader perimeter leisurely — only sign of breach is a busted sensor that totally could have been knocked down by the wind, and they’re basically _in._ Though yeah, this is a threshold — camera here, and once Jazz tampers with it, they’re starting a timeline and moving into some scurrying. 

He unplugs for mobility and looks over Prowl, doorwings drawn carefully in to avoid breaking the profile of the concrete slab they’re covering behind. ::How’d it come out? You really want to be along for this?::

Prowl'd outlined some kind of running uncertainty on the mission that meant he was maybe going to tag along, and Jazz has learned better than to try to shake the fragger if his mind’s set.

::Might be good for you to drop this map update up with Hound,:: Jazz says. Hound, Hopper, and the healthiest of the West Ruintown militia are holding support points nearby, which seems to Jazz like the best place for a tac specialist, too.

Prowl nods and checks over the kit he mostly stole off Hound. ::This route is useless to Hound, and not optimal for the organics. My presence increases mission success 8%. Mirage is likely to kill you should he encounter you without me, I am field competent enough to assist, and I will provide a motivational balance should you encounter a tempting opportunity to betray us.::

Probably doesn’t hurt that Prowl also gets to avoid being left alone with a bunch of strangers he doesn’t understand, Jazz saw him squirming under all that tiny staring. Also, though — ::You gonna follow me in still thinking there’s a chance I’ll betray you?::

::Yes,:: Prowl says. ::It will reduce the already low likelihood. As I just said.::

Well. ::’kay, then. Stay alive.:: It’s been an afternoon of scouting, and evening of more scouting, and now it’s infiltration-mission dark, and it is _time._ Jazz stretches and checks himself over — Dwsiit helped him put together enough of a hacking kit to probably be good enough — starts the timeline playlist, plants a good luck kiss on the top of Prowl’s helm, vaults over their cover, and climbs up to and hacks the unsuspecting camera before it can see him coming.

Then it’s a brisk run to the next safe spot — Jazz pauses to make sure he doesn’t lose Prowl, and earns himself an ungentle push from behind as Prowl encourages him to go at the pace Prowl marked in the plan. 

Prowl flits down the route, tempo perfect — he _did_ design the route, Jazz maybe shouldn’t be surprised he knows how to follow it. They’ve got two buildings — warehouse 5 and the little wing of IW7 — good for stashing prisoners, and the warehouse is easy to get to undetected if you just wait for High Beam to start reading a datapad and run fast and quiet down 0N-VO-J7 — then there’s enough clutter and cover to move slower.

::Watch your step,:: Jazz says — it’s a little _obvious_ , but — ::you step on a body and you’re gonna be leaving bloody tracks.:: Visrax set the depot as a field and intake camp, made it a central spot to gather locals and Autobots for interrogation, and they’ve been gathering locals nearby since before the Bots even made contact — there are a lot of bodies heaped carelessly along walls and in the out-of-the-way side paths Jazz and Prowl are creeping through.

Prowl squints a stealth-dimmed affronted look at him, but watches his steps — more and more as it becomes kinda clear that they’re in the body storage section of the place, and, yeah — Jazz claws up a wall and presses against a gap to get a look in and click on warehouse 5 and it’s just dead people — more neatly stacked than they were outside, mostly goraaxians, some stray other organics, and about half a cybertronian frame that probably got mixed in accidentally — not packed completely full, but full enough to build up nasty slime that’s probably what’s got the Cons stashing bodies on the ground outside. Jazz takes a couple image captures — they mostly look like depot and Ruintown residents, but someone might be able to get more detailed id.

::Nope.:: Jazz drops back down, catching a steadying hold on Prowl. ::Not sure they’re too into prisoners around here. And I hear engine idle at 7L. Still feeling IW7?::

::I believe prisoners are being held in IW7, yes, very much,:: Prowl says. ::72 degrees, 46 mets,:: he adds, and there’s Wolfgrip, interrogator 3rd class, dragging along someone who’s a little too dinged up for Jazz to be sure is Blowout towards IW7.

They follow — Prowl watching corners, Jazz dancing between sensors for more on-the-fly rewiring than he’s done in ages — split out when Wolfgrip goes for the main entrance, and take the long way around until they’re in an outer access hall. Not a surveilled area, and solidly hidden from patrollers once they get themselves wedged between a storage bin and the wall of the little wing of IW7.

IW7's meant to be a reception and admin hall, lots of locking doors and grates. Jazz scales the outside and wedges between floors to get an angle from above, peeks through a bit of splitting insulation and sees a few improvised cells densely packed with a sorry collection of smuggling types. Jazz counts about two dozen mechs, two doz— about a half-dozen live goraaxians, and a pair of aissevites. Looks like mostly depot regulars — he knows a few by face, but mostly it’s the lack of affiliation brand — and a handful of the Bot away team — there’s Blowout, back from interrogation and resettling into a heap of his teammates. 

The way the room’s laid, a third of the cells have little sections of grating — originally for passing packages down to couriers, currently blocked off from the outside because smugglers don’t keep buildings up to code — facing the hall Prowl’s waiting in. Likeliest familiar face out of that lot is — well, okay.

::Last grating,:: Jazz instructs, and meets Prowl there. There’s shelving set up along the hall, blocking out the reception room grates until Prowl grabs a shelving unit, pulls and rearranges so they can get — not a whole lot of space, just a little two-mech pocket between the shelving and a span of wall that happens to include a grated window into a cell. It’s small enough not to be obvious to everyone in the room, but getting to the window is slow and loud enough that they’re not exactly surprising the person on the other side when they get there.

Jazz shoves Prowl back in time to get him clear as a pair of arms thrust through the gaps in the grating and seize Jazz by the shoulder and the neck to the tune of growling and some _colorful_ threats — Jazz gets yanked in, up against the grate, towards sparking optics set in a face with an expression that promises violence.

Jazz catches himself against a bar and makes sure he slips his throat out of the grasping grip before he grins at Sunstreaker. “Yo, mech! This how you treat your rescuers?”

Sunstreaker — would be hard to recognize through all the blood, dust, and scorch, ‘cept for the particular distinctive _angry_ he’s got — growls and works his grip on Jazz without letting go, barely breaking his glare at Jazz to take in Prowl — Prowl’s stepped back, got his blaster pointed at Sunstreaker even though the angle’s slag. 

Jazz pulls up a little in Sunny’s grip to look over his shoulder for the chattier one. “At least tell me we ain’t on camera right now.”

“Psh, these cameras didn’t work _before_ we got locked in.” Sideswipe scoots from behind his brother to look at Jazz, still hanging back conveniently out of Prowl’s sights. No one actually put him in the same cell as Sunstreaker — there’s an obvious hole between this cell and the one next to it — there’s a lot of obvious damage inside IW7, broken furniture piled against the walls, scratches and dents along every seam or fault. Sideswipe grins, and Jazz can see it pull at damage on his face. “It was still fun to smash them up, though.”

“Yeah, love what you’ve done with the place.” Everything in reach of a cell is smashed to frag, and there are some hastily-patched holes in the floor and ceiling. These guys are ready to fight. “If you want, though, I got enough lockpicks and microdets for you to get out of here, if you’ll put me down.”

Sideswipe lights up. “Yeah, yes! Sunny, _c’mon_ — sorry, don’t mind him, we are so very happy to see you beautiful people, hi, explosives please?”

Sunny drops Jazz with a reluctant huff and steps back to glare from slightly further away — the twins switch places in a tight space without either a stumble or a glance at one another — Sideswipe displaces him, all eager hands through the bars as Prowl gets supplies from his subspace.

“You guys are backup for the Bot team?” Sideswipe looks between Jazz and Prowl, checking their brands, checking over his shoulder towards the cell where the Autobots are standing to watch. “Please tell me you’re killing the fraggers who rolled in here uninvited — doesn’t have to be true! I just want to hear...” Sideswipe trails off, squinting at Jazz.

“Is this everyone who needs rescue?” Jazz asks, sorting a packet of tools from Prowl and trying on a somber, professional look.

“Hey, don’t I know you?” Sideswipe asks, because everyone Jazz knows has to be difficult about it.

Jazz blinks under the combined scrutiny of the twins. “Seriously?” he says, wrapping explosives into a bundle that’ll fit through the grate. He laughs and shakes his head. “Wow, I’m flattered — yeah, we actually met a few times. I was a tunnel runner in the pits. ‘Package for the Twins!’”

“Is that...” Sideswipe presses his face against the grate to get a few inches closer look, then he grins. “Oh yeah, I think I remember that! ZRF series, right?” Sides has _a memory_ on him, _damn_.

“23XR, but most people just call me ‘hey you’!” Jazz sketches a messenger’s salute and passes the bundle across. It’s even true! A couple orns infiltration to stabilize a connection in the pits after a favorite contact got killed. 3XR was a friend of a friend and had happily taken a vacation and let Jazz keep his identity warm for a bit. “Hah. I can’t _believe_ you remember me.”

He ran into Sunny and Sides a few times, then. Also, he dealt with them extensively in person as Meister before and after the war started, but that’s a connection he doesn’t need popping up at this particular moment.

“This is everyone, yeah?” Jazz asks again.

Sideswipe’s smile fades and he nods. “Think so. They split us in two groups after they took control — Urta would be in charge of the others, but they’re all squishy, and, uh, yeah, probably just us.”

“Do you have everything you require to make it out unassisted?” Prowl asks, skimming a strange look over Jazz before he faces Sideswipe.

Sideswipe blinks and trades a look with Sunstreaker. “Uhh, well, no, and even if we could, no,” he says. “They put the forcefield up across the bay door, and even if we get out, they’ve got the whole area surrounded?”

Prowl opens his mouth to explain that this is all in accordance with contingency B-gamma-6, and Jazz cuts him off with a snort. “Aw, don’t worry none baby, just tell me, is that forcefield on your core generator? And it’s a triple-pass in an M87 distribution?”

“Yeah. I mean, yes, and we only have the...” Sideswipe rolls his optics and laughs. “Oh, yeah, if you can knock down the power, I can get all of us out before the backup comes on. Awesome! Awesome?” He leans away from the bars to meet looks and swap nods around the room before turning to nod enthusiastically at Jazz.

Prowl frowns. “You are not an Autobot,” he points out, talking to Sides, but flicking a little bit of attention towards Jazz. ::Please continue to be circumspect about our precise plans.::

Jazz shrugs — he doesn’t exactly _trust_ the twins — he knows the twins well enough to know that the Cons just killed a lot of their friends, and are going to pay for that in the near future. And he’s gotta know if the electrical’s on an M87. ::They’re good.::

Sideswipe straightens awkwardly at Prowl — he’s doing it wrong, but slaggit if Sides ain’t trying to stand at attention. “Right, hi! Sir? Sir. Yeah,” he says to Prowl with an attempt at a salute that turns into a jaunty wave under hardwired reflex. He calls over his shoulder, “Moon, can you get your crew moving when the lights go down?”

”Yeah!” Moonrock, apparent ranking Autobot, calls back.

Jazz slings a reassuring arm over Prowl and nods at the prisoners. “Yeah, that’ll be the big cue, be ready to run soon as that happens — might be as soon as it happens, but don’t actually run ‘till you hear the chaos starting. Then zig-zag dash for that cave southeast, dig? Support team’ll pick you up, don’t fragging shoot ‘em.”

“Chaos?” Sunstreaker says it, actually, as Sideswipe leans against the bars to fix an eager look on Jazz. “Are we fighting?”

“29%” Prowl puts in — not the encounter risk Jazz remembers reading, but there’d been a lot of slaggin’ numbers in there.

“Not if we do it right,” Jazz says with a wave. ::Electrical system’s good for B-gamma-6, I need access to 3 points out of XM, KM, C5, or any of O-series.:: “Get going with your prep, you’ve got” — 

::20 to 25 breems,:: Prowl says — 

“15 breems.”

\- 

Five breems later, Jazz finishes his — fragging _artful_ , he’s proud of himself — updates to the wiring in O-6. Prowl hardly glances at the project, attention on taking glimpses of passing Cons and field encampments and turning them into live map updates. 

::KM next,:: Prowl notes — fragger doesn’t even ask if Jazz is done here, which he is. ::In 13 seconds, the path through Y-9 will be clear and unobserved for a klik.::

::Aight, fun.:: Jazz needs a breem or two in KM for more rewiring, then another in C5 to take out the safety buffer, then they should have three breems to get clear.

They’re ahead of schedule even after an exciting wrong turn into a hallway that definitely wasn’t on the map — smugglers can get sloppy with their documentation, plus there’s a hostile field camp built over the top of everything. Someone’s set a guard post in the main hall through Building 4 — bad luck, looks like field command is set up kinda close to a place they’re gonna need at least one sabotage point in. Sneaking alone, Jazz would go out the window and through the vents — there is also a side entrance that works fine.

::You’re lucky this depot ain’t designed to be defensible,:: Jazz says as he props the bit of false wall back the way it was between KM and K1. 

KM’s an actual electrical control center, power along the back wall, carts and heaps of supplies making a bit of a labyrinth that Jazz hops over. There are _communication consoles_ in here, and a _field computer_ , and they’re _on_ — Jazz gives a console a yearning look and Prowl a pleading one. ::Betcha there are commands in there, Prowler.::

::Focus, Jazz. If they are using consoles here, it is not safe for us to linger.:: Prowl edges through the equipment more cautiously, keeping an eye back towards the main door. ::You have two breems.::

::I do it in one, and spend the other on the comms?:: Jazz gets in the electrical system and gets to putting every single couple in the most explosive configuration he can come up with. Optimus didn’t fragging kid about sending a non-violent force to the depot — Hound had personal weapons and barely had enough explodables to give Sideswipe. Jazz and Prowl are working with a limited kit, leaning on Jazz’s general knowledge of smuggler’s shortcuts and smuggler’s unregulated and overburdened electrical systems — M87 means forcing low yield off an unstable core, popular with off-the-grid types for the high power, unpopular in more standard building for being prone to catastrophic explosions.

::Do _not_ shirk the primary objective,:: Prowl says, ducking to join Jazz in the nest of wires and screens.

::I’m not!:: He’s not! He’s just quick, the breem’s enough time, and he’s got — ::Twelve kliks!:: — to the end of the song, he’s just, ::Gonna check for bad security practice, I’ll give up if it ain’t immediately good.:: 

:: _Ten_ ,:: Prowl haggles, and Jazz doesn’t waste time checking out exactly how annoyed he looks. The Cons haven’t touched the depot controls — no creds in there, damn — the field machine isn’t on default validation and doesn’t have any notes in the common places people leave them — could still smash out the drive to check it later for —

Nine kliks in, Jazz drops his work and dashes to the side door. ::People coming,:: he tells Prowl, who’s already following. ::Two heavies and a mid, at the—:: oh _frag_ , he pivots and makes for the vent in the inner corner instead ::—outside both doors, wait ‘em out by the back exit.::

Might be they’re just passing by — Jazz gets the vent cover off before they have to find out. He checks Prowl’s bumper and wingspan, grabs and pushes Prowl’s doorwings in experimentally. ::How much can you fold in?::

::I will not fit in that vent,:: Prowl says. He doesn’t squirm away from the rough handling, and Jazz takes that as a very bad sign.

“—at you do with them.” The door opens, and that’s Redline with Weldedge, they’re talking, they’re having a fragging _meeting_ in here — cool, they found Redline’s fragging field office — and squatting behind a cart is a _joke_ hiding spot and — the timeline suddenly becomes very delicate. 

_::Jazz,::_ Prowl says. His expression is calm but his grip is tight on his weapon.

::Trade me, stash this.:: Jazz takes off his visor and presses it to Prowl’s hand, snagging Prowl’s blaster in the same motion. ::Hold still,:: he says, sparing a single moment to flash Prowl a smile aimed at reassuring before slipping himself into the vent. ::Shield your spark.:: If Prowl doesn’t startle or provoke them they won’t kill him, he’s got too many questions to answer. ::Pray, if you’re into that.::

::I am not,:: Prowl probably says, signal cutting out as Jazz gets out of range.

He jumps the playlist to _whoops, spotted! (Field camp, med-small)_ , flips his brand back to purple, and moves fast — should be about two songs before someone thinks to resecure the prisoners, tighter time constraint is that the generator will be an obvious check once Redline calls in hostile on base — frag the access point in C5, no time, Jazz has Con colors and when he grabs a parcel out of a supply heap he passes easy as a courier running straight to the generator core.

Cons here are mostly from the Inevitable Advance, Ricochet’s last post, and he — in Ricochet’s colors — is a familiar frame, and doesn’t slow down to let people remember whether or not he’s supposed to be out on this mission — not that it matters, no one pays attention even when he blatantly ducks cameras and just straight up picks a lock out in the open to bust in the upper entrance to the generator room.

There’s a tech, frowning at a readout — hah, yeah, readouts are gonna be saying the core’s close to blowing — too engrossed to twig something wrong before Jazz hops down, slashes out his comms and vocals and EMPs him in a single motion. 

Generator core’s an important system, always buddy work, Jazz already located the tech’s buddy — Krimp, around the corner, looking at a datapad — different frame type, Jazz can’t get comms and vocals in a single slash — twirls his grip on the energon blade to smash out his comms first and Krimp gets a single scream out before Jazz claws out his vocalizer and pins him against the nearest surface — cable bank, bit too hot to be comfy for either of them.

The scream was _noise —_ there ain’t meant to be anyone close enough to hear, but it’s enough to make Jazz _antsy_ as he wrenchs back Krimp’s ports and rips down firewall until he can steal the camp’s team frequency and Krimp’s id ping — he EMPs Krimp while they’re still connected to save four seconds, grimaces through the pain and forces a steady aim — already noisy, what’s a blaster shot now — to shoot out buffers and stabilizers until the room’s squealing with damaged machinery and stinking of ozone — the camp-wide emergency stations alert blares into his comm while he’s working — it’s fine, electrical system’s done.

Jazz takes the main door out from the generator, hits the ground in alt driving at speed, races back into Building 4 and to the front entrance to control room KM and Prowl — brakes back to root a little early to climb up to the rafters. 

Outside KM, two guards — Tear Up and Tear Down — are on the door, Jazz ain’t about to sprint down an open hallway at Tear Down — TD knows how to kill slag. There’s a scream from inside KM and Jazz uses the noise cover to get above and behind the guards, drops about twelve mets onto Tear Down from above — Jazz makes up what he lacks in mass and inbuilt weaponry with dropping from the ceiling with knives out — and uses the falling force to jam his energon knife through comms, vocals, and mainlines in a messy dive that Jazz draws into a spin to get the body down with minimal crashing noise — abandons the energon knife in Tear Down’s greying frame.

Tear Up’s a scrub and Jazz pulls a vibroblade and sticks it through his optic and into his processor before he gets an alert out — two heavies going down ain’t _silent,_ but it sounds like they’re distracted in KM roughing up Prowl. Jazz sprints quiet back down the hall the way he came before he turns around. 

“Fraggin’ _Pit!”_ he shouts from the corner — runs in as loud and clumsy as a tech, forcing his blaster into an overpowered setting that’ll let him get one good shot through medium wargrade armor, and knocks frantically at the door — pings it with Krimp’s id when there’s no immediate response. “They’re dead! Hey, hello?”

The door flings opens — not clear whether the ping’s set up proper or Weldedge just let him in, don’t matter either way — Weldedge in the doorway and Redline back in by Prowl — Prowl scuffed, cuffed to a heavy desk, but intact, _good._ Both Cons are looking at him with weapons up, and Weldedge — newish transfer, this’ll be fine — sweeps a look over him, visor bright. “What? Who are you?”

Jazz salutes plus or minus some frantic waving. “Saxo, systems tech, something’s up with electrical and there are two dead guys out here!” 

Jazz sidesteps into the room to offer a clear view on the dead guards outside. Weapons dip down slightly and both Cons look where he’s pointing — Weldedge’s plating starts to flare in alarm and Jazz sticks his blaster into a gap and shoots the overpowered shot through Weldedge’s spark chamber — gonna be a through shot, doesn’t bother to check, gonna short the blaster, drops it there — jumps back and claws up a wall to get an angle on Redline and fling a knife.

Redline’s a real bruiser — big, fast, frelling excellent combat reflexes and he’s already turning to Jazz and dodging — Jazz tilts his angle to compensate and aim — fumbles the knife as his inhibitors flare to life and he goes down sideways.

The floor comes up fast and Jazz doesn’t even have the coordination to land well — sprawls on the floor painful and undignified and _vulnerable_. 

“Ah. That makes more sense,” Redline says, recovering composure and strolling towards Jazz’s limp form. “Traitor, or infiltrator?” He glances over his dead teammates and shakes his head. “No matter, spy.” ::Second hostile captured. Watch electrical systems.:: 

Pft, they ain’t saving the electrical systems — Redline’s barely got the comm out when there’s a distant _boom_ and a closer _pop_ and flare as Jazz’s work in the corner goes off and fills the room with black smoke and a spray of shattered glass and liquified plastic.

Mission accomplished at least. Too bad Jazz didn’t manage a clean exit. Backup emergency lights come on in the room as Jazz gets enough strength to flop up-ish and to see Redline illuminated in dim red, looming over Jazz with a murderous expression. “I fragging hate spies.”

::Prowl,:: Jazz says, trying to figure out the most important thing to say in the second he’s got before Redline kills him. Prowl’s command and easier to hold, they’ll keep him, he’s got a chance.

“I know you,” Redline says — may or may not be a lie, Jazz has met Red under like three different names and it’s never been a thing before. “Shifty little mech. Says anything to win a minute, never thinks anything through. Kills a lot of mechs too dumb to see you coming.” Okay, general statement — generally true, and apparently an affront to Red’s warrior sensibilities.

“Useless in a fair fight.” The second’s lingered stupid long, and Redline’s taken a step back. He’s — fragging _warrior_ , okay, making a _point._ Jazz has passive inhibitors and baffled weapons but yeah even without that, Redline — any number of mechs, really — can absolutely take him in a fair fight — why the _frag_ would Jazz let anyone at him in a fair fight?

Jazz gets pedes under him, gets a grip on his knife. Redline lets him, watches Jazz with this _sadistic_ patience. Knife, open room, against a mech with greater reach, no element of surprise, it’s a _stupid_ fight — Jazz would try to duck in the smoke and bait him in, but he’s pretty sure anything other than a suicidal lunge in is going to get him pinged again and besides there’s no _time,_ his chances go from slim to none if security gets its slag together and joins the party.

Jazz feints and cuts in towards Redline, skims under a claws-out grabbing swipe, rips a solid slash through some important motor cables — holds his own for about six seconds and then catches a dizzying blow across his face, gets picked up and slammed hard back against a wall.

“How did you get here?” Redline asks, no hint of strain or pain in his voice, just annoyed curiosity. He’s got a knee pinning Jazz’s legs, and a huge arm pressed solidly over Jazz’s chassis. :: _Find_ the prisoners,:: goes out on general comms. Oh, prisoners loose, yay.

“Drove,” Jazz chokes out through the grip over his neck. He’s got no leverage, and Redline is casually crushing an elbow into Jazz’s arm in a way that makes it hard to keep hold of his knife.

“We’ll figure it out.” Redline grimaces and presses Jazz harder against the wall. “I hate spies,” he says again, shifting his hold to get a hand under Jazz’s chin and brace his helm in place. “Only fun thing about a spy is the traditional punishment.”

Aw, frag. Redline uses his free hand to grip Jazz’s face, tucks fingertips under his jawline in stabilizing grip and traces his thumb gently under an optic. Is he going to ask questions, or is he just going to — 

Jazz offlines his optics as Redline pulls his thumb back enough to put out a claw and stab it through Jazz’s right optic lens. 

Light and vision flare and flicker, optics glitching online with screaming errors and nauseating pain — Jazz jerks at the sensation, scrabbling uselessly against the wall — Redline’s claws dig in to his jaw to keep him in place for the follow up, clawtip digs delicately through the broken lens to find and skewer an internal sensor — dramatic bastard is ignoring Jazz’s struggles now and yeah, reasonable — the world is flashing in and out in a kaleidoscope of visual nonsense and Jazz chucks his knife towards what he fragging hopes is the back corner of the room.

He wants to struggle, to buy time — there’s a tactical reason under there somewhere, but Jazz ain’t really able to think through base level _try to escape claw in optic_ — goes nowhere against the arm holding him steady, the claw patiently rummaging in the socket to pop sensors — can’t stop himself from jerking at each fresh stab through a subsensor, each flare of pain and sparking visual systems whiting out his thoughts.

Time and any estimate of how many fragging sensors he _has_ in an optic don’t qualify for Jazz’s limited ability to make sense of the world as he’s pinned there — is Redline humming to himself, or is Jazz’s sensory integration frying — he’s got nothing to do but writhe — until —

Redline’s pinning grip jerks and slacks slightly and it’s raw instinct as much as anything else that has Jazz ready to kick free and use it.

World’s still a glitching flash of visual error but there’s flickers of actual info — flicker of Prowl, broken stasis cuffs swinging as he makes an inexpert but enthusiastic flurry of stabs at Redline — flicker of Redline’s moment of misbalance, a vulnerable seam of armor, close and clear enough for Jazz to pull another knife from under plating and jam it in, yank it out — blackness, Jazz’s claws grabbing at something on Redline, weight shoving back on Jazz as he gets his attention again.

::Security, to KM, _now_ , ping to—:: Redline manages during a strobing rainbow of visual error — Jazz is swiping blindly, can’t tell if it’s him or Prowl that finally rips out Red’s comms.

Jazz gets another flash of clear vision, so he’s sure it’s Prowl who jams a shock prod into the fault of broken metal where Redline’s comms used to be, twists it in and up, and pulses lethal current into Redline’s processor. 

“Fair fights are tactical idiocy,” Prowl mutters as he takes Redline’s sidearm, and Jazz, even more, falls in love.

Jazz laughs and trips over to the control consoles in the room, clicking echo — ugh, _dizzy_ — and jabbing at security controls that flicker in and out of sight. About half the consoles are slagged from power out or explosion, but there’s emergency backups. “Security incoming, Prowler, help me initiate lockdown.”

“Did you manage the core objective?” Prowl asks, nudging Jazz aside to work the — fairly user-friendly once Jazz has it running — base security controls. “Lockdown initiated. Security response will be delayed and limited but still overwhelming, 94%.”

“Did you not hear the fragging explosion? I gotchu, boo. ‘Sides, if this ain’t enough fragging distraction anyway, nothing is.” He hardlines into Redline so long as Prowl’s working the depot internals — almost completely fried, but Red’s still alive for five kliks and that’s enough for Jazz to get enough before he unplugs and stumbles to the terminals.

Static, white light, brief image of Prowl hovering ready to catch Jazz, expression faintly concerned. “We need to barricade the main door and exit through the side in half a breem. Can you see?”

“You do the barricade. You got slag ready to send out?” Jazz hardlines the field computer to get Redline’s creds set and starts a signal out.

Dragging and crashing noises as Prowl shoves anything heavy into the doorway. “I thought we wanted Visrax. How quickly can you submit orders?”

“We do, we did, but that ain’t looking likely right now and Red’s too dead to clarify orders, and it’s just data send, and he’s XO on the troopers and sweeps that are still out, looks like there’s a group in sector — PW9, that’s line-G on your map, can you do the transpositions?” It’s a basic terminal, even hardlined in, Jazz is struggling with the visual errors. Wouldn’t be worth powering through if Jazz thought they’d get a better chance later.

Prowl shoves him aside again. “Send that squad to KW4 and tell them to attack the — I can do transpositions, just set the signal for me. One as Redline, and one to Blaster, please. Do you have an exit plan?”

“Cool.” Jazz starts a line on a second terminal, only hitting the wrong buttons for a klik. “I mean. Fight our way out.”

Flickered image of Prowl, pushing away from his terminal and coming to Jazz, looking _appalled._ “16% chance of survival.”

Jazz is still working, and leans against Prowl’s invisible mass as he feels out the rest of the comms work. “Eh, you ain’t really seen me fight.”

“You are _blind_.” Prowl catches something Jazz knocked off the console — probably wasn’t important, console work’s going fine.

“Only mostly. He only got half an array, just need a joor for my sense net to compensate. I’m good at sonar.” Console work’s done! Trapped with security incoming aside, this is going great.

“We do not have a joor.” Prowl sounds like he’s talking through a clenched jaw and Jazz wishes he could see his face. 

“Hide in the vents ‘till slag balances out?”

“83% they have your tracking code,” Prowl says. Yeah, what the frag was with getting _inhibitor pinged_? Sounded like his ping wasn’t common knowledge in camp, but it only takes one slagger figuring out the tracker.

“How bad’s 83%?” Jazz asks, groping towards the side entrance and clicking it — someone running by, headed for some other crisis — it is _chaos_ out there. 

“Do not attempt to hide in the vents.” Sounds calm, but Jazz bets that’s just the sound of Prowl passing his expressible exasperation threshold.

“So, fight our way out. Meet the first investigating team in K-0, and move to keep from getting surrounded.” Jazz gets another flicker of Prowl staring at him, optics bright. He’s got an idea, but it’s a little — it asks for some _trust._

Prowl’s in his space suddenly, hardlines in and passes a high density synch packet. _Do you know how to hitch visual feeds?_

_Not in isolation._ Sense feeds are too integrated into extended processing to share well without lots of related data, lots of vulnerabilities for the one lending the feed. The packet Prowl gave him has everything he needs to establish a comm-mediated sensory connection.

Prowl unplugs and Jazz gets a connection request. “Optimal. My visual feed is integrated into tactical systems and would be inadvisable to uncouple.”

Jazz sets the connection and _vision_ returns, prioritizing over his glitching mess — losing the painful and dizzying errors is almost as good as getting a visual. It’s a weird visual, of course, he can see himself in a smokey room full of broken slag and he reflexively tries to look around — sees himself turning his head, sees himself take a tentative step.

Prowl obligingly looks where he’s looking and the visual shifts strangely, out of perspective and — and something feeds out a rush of movement, mass, trajectory calculations. Jazz kicks a bit of broken computer out of his way, and knows automatically and exactly where it’s going to go, hears it hit with an offset mix of sound. 

That’s — Jazz switches his emergency stabbing knife for a heavier combat piece, tosses it lightly and sees in clean precision how the weight and angle play. Fragging. _Wow_. 

“Oh, this’ll do.” Jazz laughs and feels the sound in his chest and against his doorwings, gets a rich set of data on the size of the room, the weight of the air. He turns and sees himself make broken — his optics are blacked, that’s fragging creepy — optic contact with Prowl, flourishing his knife with a wild grin. “Dance with me Prowler!”


	29. Chapter 29

**`  
♫♪. :yo:  
[nxs4895623] :smelter _fragger_ :  
♬♬ :adggd hgf g gte rready fr inccoming importnatn:  
[nxs4895623] :what the frag do you think youre doing:  
[nxs4895623] :this had better be good:  
♩♪ :ujhhhh:  
♪♫ :sry sectritys comin no tmie i got angy coppcar beihnd me w commnds to pwasss rdy to rouyte?:  
[nxs4895623] :wha:  
_PROWL attached 45 files  
_ ` **

Prowl finds himself in the odd position of hoping that his teammate, on whose close combat skill he is relying, is jittery with excitement ( _*_ b3%, _emotions_ ), because the alternative is that he is shaking due to damage (91%). It is likely some combination. Prowl himself does not _jitter_ with nerves, though he recognizes his systems cycling into overclock in anticipation of overwhelming danger.

They move through K1, sense feed shifting distantly under Jazz’s focus (he is fussing with it, 94%). Jazz draws a claw down the main door out to K-0, making a shrill metal noise that exacerbates whatever Jazz is doing (mixed audio comprehension, 87%). Prowl reflexively rebalances the feed and Jazz shakes his head. ::Can we put my audio on top?:: Jazz asks.

::Yes.:: Tac net is only at 41% integrative load, and Prowl already has a multisource compensation algorithm from collaborating with enforcers. The first investigating team should already be in the area, and Prowl updates the feed in a time-pressure-conscious half-klik.

Even with only indirect indications (they are only adjusting where audio and visual trade off as dominant sense, and where the two integrate), the shared feed contorts drastically as Jazz tunes and focuses his audio — sound leaps up prioritizations, and echolocation (which has never been a preferred sense of Prowl’s) engages against Prowl’s tactical integration and personal sensitivity to find the approaching security team in ringing detail.

Jazz dashes out into the hall and into position by the time Prowl has registered the beginning of the maneuver. They meet the first investigating team (four-mech security detail, running a general response, uninformed on security breach details, 79%) in K-0. Prowl, with movements planned but with more limited mobility than Jazz, sees the detail from down the hall 1.2 kliks before they see him. 

Prowl is careful to keep Jazz (skittering up a wall) in at least peripheral view and the security team (turning and repositioning to shoot at Prowl) in clear view as he takes cover as best he can. Prowl is competent enough in combat, but the role he has taken leaves him dangerously vulnerable, tracking and hiding from gunshots and flanks while maintaining a steady observation.

Unable to break line of sight, he relies on Jazz’s speed. It is safer than the security team realizes, and they rush him for an anticipated easy capture. Jazz drops into their midst, landing two slashes and a knockdown kick before he has hit the ground. 

Jazz is skilled. Without the pressure for secrecy, Jazz goes for incapacitations, severing weapons and motor cables rather than vital lines or critical components. It is quicker and safer than attempting to kill notoriously durable cybertronians, but it is also — Prowl finds it in-character. Jazz has enough competence to leave room for mercy, and it is a beautiful thing. He also collects three knives (that Prowl sees) from the team, and throws a plasma blaster to Prowl.

At 8.6 kliks from initial contact, the security detail is disarmed and damaged beyond condition that would allow them to pursue as Jazz and Prowl run for MH-T and the next ideal engagement point for projected response.

“Fr—”::Frag,:: Jazz says, laughter burbling out both in comms and physically, adding an uneven sway to his sprint down the corridor. (Is he stable? Jazz’s behavior is typical of mechs experiencing early stage breakdown, but it is also reasonably typical of _Jazz._ ) Prowl dutifully keeps visual on the area as they duck into the sheltered turnoff in MH-T.

::Wow,:: Jazz says. He settles against a corner with another laugh and sorts his collection of knives, arranging most under his plating and selecting and activating a long vibroblade.

Prowl leaves Jazz only peripheral visual support for a moment to check and arm the plasma blaster (nine debilitating-caliber shots on medium armor, significantly better close combat option than his rifle). Peripherally, tac net complains at spotting Jazz’s 17th knife, finally exceeding the 95% upper bound of projected acquisition rate.

::Why — how — _why_ do you have _so many_ knives?:: Prowl asks, aware of the uselessness of the question as soon as he has asked it. He shakes his head. ::Nevermind. Are you functioning acceptably?:: Tac integrated feed can be overwhelming to process.

::Yeah. This is...:: Jazz is twitching and fidgeting, even as he flashes an ‘all okay’ and nods rapidly. He flings a knife hard at a ceiling corner, leaps as it hits handle-first and bounces back spinning, catches it by the handle and lands neatly with a blind(ing) grin at Prowl. ::Fun.::

Prowl frowns, trajectory and timing calculations running on a near-subconscious automatic. ::Please do not play with the tac net.::

::Ah.:: Jazz’s grin shrinks to apologetic ::Call it calibrating?:: He draws knives and posture into a proper ready. ::Sorry. Ready.::

They are _ready_ for the pair coming in through MH-T and Prowl lets Jazz take them both down, as he is able to do so more quietly, giving a 10% better chance of surprising the guard station at H-T (the element of surprise will bring likelihood of successful engagement at H-T from 45% to 52%).

Jazz helps (throws) Prowl up a ledge and along a dusty space to watch H-T through a grate. He watches Jazz slip around through some damaged flooring to spring up and disable the pair at the core of the guard station, shoving one into the next nearest guard and pulling the other into use as a shield from a sudden spray of shots from the rest of the guards. 

“Hostiles, hostiles! Who’re —” Three guards actively threatening, Jazz throws a knife that sends one staggering, ducks back under a barrier and runs to flank one of the remaining two, tackles him and spins him between Jazz and the recovering guards for use as impromptu cover again. 

The feed flickers oddly, giving Prowl enough strands of sound and echo to identify a reinforcing group incoming from H-7. Jazz will not be able to fight them, but this is in-scenario. Jazz only needs to draw everyone away from T-7 for long enough for Prowl to cross in and prepare to lock the false wall behind them. 

Jazz’s colors and brand flip back into the configuration Prowl knows best (Autobot) before he shoves his hostage into the most recovered guard (sending both away from T-7) and pounces on someone readying a shot, laughing as he neatly dodges fire from the reinforcements. 

Prowl keeps his view steady across the scene and sees the incoming team (eight, movement organized, competent) as he breaks through the grate, shoots a guard (processor, jostled, dead 43%) who was in the way, and moves towards his position.

Jazz throws another knife and waves at the mech leading the reinforcements as he dodges. “Noxie!” Jazz calls down the hallway as it fills with well-armed Decepticons. “Surrender and we’ll treat ya fair!”

Noxie (Noxepsis, staff sergeant, 89%) responds by firing a shot at Jazz from close enough range that the tac net assist barely provides enough time for Jazz to dodge. The response team moves in, and Jazz again leaps between positions, throwing two knives, stabbing with a third, and fully disabling two of the original guards and one of the reinforcements in the rush of motion. 

Prowl gets the hidden door open and the passage-side barrier ready. Jazz moves like a nightmare through the guard station, impressively (impossibly, tac net whines) fast, and he will easily make it in, but Prowl’s distraction with the door means they have missed the remaining guard getting ready to shoot Jazz with a high power ion rifle.

Jazz falters in his run towards the entrance, and he will be unable to dodge or counter, so Prowl shoots the threatening guard (shoulder, lines destroyed, dead 86%) before stepping back to allow Jazz into the passage. 

“Drivetrain!” Jazz yelps in alarm, reflexively looking back towards that last guard. 

“Do you know _everyone_ in this camp?” Prowl asks, shoving the door shut without checking the fallen guard. (Prowl hopes he did not just kill one of Jazz’s friends.) He throws the heavy latch and follows Jazz at a run down the passage.

Jazz shrugs without breaking pace. “Kinda my jam. Still woulda killed me though, so thanks babe.”

Knowing names is his _jam_ , indeed, alongside navigating smugglers’ tunnels and knife-fighting entire teams without taking any damage. Jazz is skilled in combat. 

Jazz is skilled enough in combat that Prowl needs to update the impact of close engagement on his scenarios. He had expected (91%) at least one of them to have acquired hampering damage by this point, and can already discard a number of plans.

“Prowler,” Jazz asks over his shoulder, “are you multitasking on me?”

Prowl is following along a narrow hallway at perfect pace, and there is nothing demanding his full attention. “There is no way for you to notice the impact of my divided focus on the tactical feed.”

“Naw, ‘course not — ain’t complaining!” Jazz laughs and points over Prowl’s shoulder, where neither of them can see, but both of them are getting proprioceptive information from Prowl’s sensory panels. “Just wondering what’s got your wings waggling.”

Also not an impact of tac resourcing, simply emotionally expressive. Prowl stills his wings. “I am increasing the chance we will survive the cycle,” he says.

Jazz grins, still walking backwards as they reach the wall of N2. “Told ya I could fight!”

“Increasing it to 36—” Prowl frowns at a crest of shouting and gunfire nearby — not in N2, but one over and one down in G1, according to Jazz’s hearing. ::39%:: Is that in-fighting? 78%

::Cool,:: Jazz says. He takes Prowl’s hand and gives it a little squeeze before he kicks through a patched section of floor, dropping both of them out of the secret passage and onto the pair patrolling the end of N1.

There is only the pair of Decepticons in N1, and Jazz pins one to the floor with a superheated laserblade through the knee and slashes the main motor transmission of the other while Prowl takes the weapons out of their (surprise-slacked) hands. 

Then they run for the exit (exit 7, 66 mets straight and 17 mets after a turn at NG). ::94% major security concentration at NG,:: Prowl reminds Jazz as they come up on NG, where there is visibly a 16-mech security team holding the intersection. ::100%:: Prowl updates.

::Yep,:: Jazz says, hauling Prowl back by the hand and throwing a knife that embeds into the optic of the first Decepticon pursuing them back out of NG.

The second pursuer fires a burst of shots that has Prowl dodging blindly into a side turnoff, trying to continue tracking motion and attacks of six (five active) hostile mechs in the hall as Jazz once again takes to tackling and stabbing anyone in pouncing range (about 11 mets, depending on angle).

Prowl shoots two mechs and misses shots on three more, struggling to aim while dodging and keeping coordinating perspective, accuracy not at all assisted by Jazz’s occasional shoves to reposition Prowl clear of attackers.

“Take _cover_ , you glitched gunner!” Someone yells, which is odd, since it is not Jazz’s voice but the advice is far more applicable to Prowl than to anyone else in the firefight.

Prowl ignores the voice, because Jazz is very nearly (10 more kliks) overwhelmed unless Prowl can _focus_ and actually land his _frelling_ shots. A heavyframe is swinging at Jazz with an electroflail, and Prowl’s shot hits him along the collar, which is not enough to stagger him, not enough to protect Jazz from taking severe damage (92%).

An aissevite, wings flared to full (about a mech’s handspan) throws himself bodily against the face of the mech attacking Jazz, and that is enough to make him stumble. (Jazz spins, using the mech’s unsteady moment grabbing the aissevite by the wing to stab the Decepticon through the throat.)

“Get ‘em get ‘em get ‘em!” the aissevite shrieks as he scrambles (wing broken) onto Jazz’s shoulder, and nine mechs (four Autobots, five unaffiliated) crash into the hallway from NG, grappling (seven minimally armed) or shooting (two with guns) the security team formerly occupying intersection NG. 

“Got ‘em, go, go, go!” That is one of the twins from before, the red one. He shoves a mech he has by the leg towards his twin (who catches the Decepticon), opens a nearby door (through which the Decepticon is promptly thrown), and slams the door shut again. He punches out the swipe pad on the door (which is improperly configured for safety and promptly locks shut) and waves at Jazz and Prowl. “Hi! Hi!” he says to each of them.

“Hi,” Jazz says, pinning a mech to the floor and slamming a pulse of (debilitating, dead 23%) EM into his processor before looking up to wave back at the twin. Two of the other mechs in their sudden reinforcements glance at the interaction, but most of the group prioritizes attacking Decepticons with desperate energy.

“Aah what the frag happened to—” The red twin startles at Jazz’s burnt out optics but manages to redirect his attention to subduing the (three) remaining Decepticons. “Doesn’t matter, you’re obviously doing fine! We’ve, uh, maybe got two squads chasing us, wanna fight ‘em with us?”

“Might be fun!” Jazz says. “Sweetspark?”

::Two squads incoming, most likely response teams D (91%) and B (75%).:: “Fall back to Building 3,” Prowl commands, directing the mob towards exit 7.

Exit 7 is newly accessible, and they gain two to four breems of lead on overwhelming response by sheltering in Building 3.

“Hey, Sideswipe!” Jazz says, jogging alongside the red twin (Sideswipe, 99%). Sideswipe and Jazz are on the vanguard, shoving aside debris and taking down startled Decepticons to make movement space for the larger, still mostly unarmed group. “Say, why the frag didn’t ya run like you was meant to?”

“What, with the kids and the noncombatants? And let you hog all the fighting?” Sideswipe laughs as he shepherds the last of the mechs (Strafe, Autobot, away team security escort, missing an arm) into 3-S. He uses his first free moment to prop his elbow onto his twin(who makes a face that even Prowl easily recognizes as _annoyed_ )’s shoulder. “Also, these chumps don’t know how to get through lockdown here, and we wanted to rub that in.”

‘Trade post personnel include combat (mostly guerilla) trained individuals who will engage the encampment,’ was likely enough (24%) that Prowl slots it easily into the scenarios he was already updating. “How likely is Noxepsis to surrender?” he asks Jazz.

“Nox—” Jazz looks up from where he is once again rearranging his knives. “That was mostly a joke,” he says. (Prowl was _aware._ ) “But — huh.” He tilts his head and turns to Sideswipe. “Is the forcefield in the reception bay still usable?”

“Yeah?” Sideswipe looks over to one of the trade post mechs (light armor, holding an engineer’s multitool like he intends to use it for bludgeoning), who nods. “Yeah.”

Jazz is bouncing on his pedes as he turns to Prowl. “Babe, can we retake this place?”

With lockdown, the current state of systems, and Prowl’s best models of the capabilities of the group... it takes a moment to calculate. (31%, compared to 87% zero-casualty escape.) “No,” Prowl says. “Not unless this room contains enough weaponry to fully arm the group, and controls for the storm barriers.” 9%, 0.3%, respectively — their foxhole in Building 3 is a dormitory, and all lockers have already been emptied, remaining personal effects strewn across the floor.

“I have been gathering weaponry,” Mirage says, and Jazz flings a knife towards his disembodied voice.

Mirage’s disruptor field drops with an unusual shimmer of visual snow, transition disturbed by Mirage jerking to avoid the knife. He is holding an armful of blasters (and presumably has more in subspace). “And I believe I can access the storm barrier controls. How would you like them set?”

 _“Warn_ a mech, Raj!” Jazz hisses, going to retrieve his thrown knife. “How long ya been here?”

“Three-quarters globally, and fully along the north walls, please,” Prowl tells Mirage. Prowl is familiar enough with Mirage to make appropriate updates quickly. 

“Wait, wait, are we booting out the Cons?” Sideswipe has a restraining hand on his twin (who is primed to attack Mirage).

“This seemed an opportune time,” Mirage says, directed ambiguously between everyone else in the room.

“Neutralizing and securing them on-location,” Prowl corrects Sideswipe. Only half of the people in this room are actually under his command, he remembers. “If you are willing. Escape remains viable and more likely successful than deliberate engagement.”

“Frag that,” the other twin grunts. 

“He means, frag that,” Sideswipe says. “We were all ready to fight, we’re still doing that! We can take them?”

Prowl nods. “94%”

-

Initially, Jazz’s efficacy is unaffected or improved by tac support directing him alongside the broader group as they secure control over Building 3, then the full south quadrant, then into a flanking confrontation with the remaining Decepticons. Prowl is somewhat uncomfortable with the aissevite with the broken wing riding on his shoulder, but it is the most sensible tactical decision during heavy combat and they only sustain mild (low-impact gunshots on Blowout and two of the neutrals) and moderate injuries (shattered pede on Flashbang, 10% chassis melt on a neutral) in the process of corralling the Decepticons into holding (in IW7 and scattered rooms mostly in Building 9) and accepting their surrender.

As the combat dies down and the capture switches into logistical coordination, Jazz is forced into a general protective role, operating significantly off his own audio. His visual input is still reliant on Prowl’s attention, which is increasingly occupied by his attempts to direct an unfamiliar and somewhat hysterical collection of allies.

The original Autobot away team has lost (dead 72%, no one has been able to clarify) a key hauler, and has taken too much damage to travel safely, but enough of the trade post residents are eager to join a convoy away from the Decepticons for Prowl to actually salvage the resource acquisition objective. He starts a team out and shuts down another’s nonsensical proposal to attack the nearest major Decepticon holding, balancing headcounts and relocations, running back and forth between scouts and consoles and an initially very confused support team. 

Even in a mostly secured situation, even though it gives him excessive visibility into logistical movements, Jazz’s proximity is sensible. For one thing, Prowl does not know everyone on their working team, and when a dust-tan lightframe sprints in towards him, Prowl assumes he is a courier (84%) until Jazz drops from a shadow and takes him down with a stab and an EMP. 

Prowl looks over to pick out the Decepticon brand on the mech sprawled in the hallway with Jazz on top of him before refocusing on the datapad with his working command set for Hound. Lingering ill-conceived random attacks aside, the situation is coming under control. The neutrals are at least temporarily grateful enough for assistance to obey Prowl’s commands. There are five friendly groups in the area and if they are all _disoriented_ by sudden Autobot control over the trade post, then Prowl has some time to impose order before people start to question him.

“We should maybe move?” Jazz says, wiping energon from his knife and glancing (still sightless, theatrics) meaningfully up and down the hall.

Prowl nods and directs Jazz to follow him towards the temporary admin station at KM. He puts aside his datapad long enough to make sure he does not trip over the downed Decepticon as Jazz steps in with him. “I thought,” Prowl says, “that you weren’t going to be our assassin.”

“What?” Jazz says. “Oh, right, I said — but wait, what? He ain’t even dead—” Jazz spins a step to call back towards the Decepticon while continuing to walk (more sideways than backwards) with Prowl “— yeah I know yer faking, keep faking and I won’t hafta actually kill ya!”

If he is conscious (74%), Jazz must have severed a major motor connection (97%) to be comfortable leaving him for later collection. Prowl sighs. “Not him. The other one.” What was his name? Prowl should remember his name, he impersonated him under a joor ago. “Redlane.”

“Red—Redline. Redline? What? Fragging — _you_ killed Redline!” Jazz says, drawing a knife from his plating for (68%) the sole purpose of gesticulation.

“Yes,” Prowl says, “the assassination aspect would have been more obvious had you been more quickly successful.”

“That is _stretching_ the definition, Prowler!” Twirling the knife does add something to Jazz’s emotional expression, though Prowl is not sure it is entirely appropriate.

“It is a poorly defined word,” Prowl acknowledges. “Still, he was no threat to you, and killing him was off-mission.” (::Pray,:: Jazz said, and Prowl did not know _for what_ , forcefully redirected tac net to survival scenarios rather than the reflexive attempt to _predict Jazz_.)

“He was— I was—” Jazz laughs. “Mech, he was a terrible person and we’re all better off with him dead.”

Prowl was hardly claiming otherwise. He nods. “Give me the parameters for your assessment and I can apply them more generally.”

“What?” Jazz’s laughter is gone, demeanor more serious than Prowl has seen in a while.

Prowl rephrases, “Tell me why exactly you —”

“No, no, I got you,” Jazz says, light tone coming back a little forced. “I mean, I meant, don’t get all ahead of yourself.”

Prowl has misstepped, yet again. “I simply prefer to have time to prepare analysis,” he says, hoping that he sounds more councillatory than defensive, “in case it does become relevant.”

“I don’t—” Jazz manages to laugh and growl at the same time. “I still don’t work for you.”

“Underst—” Prowl does not feel like lying. He knows Jazz sees this alliance as temporary, but there is clearly something _additional_ behind Jazz’s insistence on this point (*%). “So you have said,” he says instead.

Jazz walks more stiffly, paces with unhappy tension as he fidgets for his next line. Then they come to the corner of K-1 and he abruptly hides his knife, relaxes his posture, and puts on a smile. (Friendly around the corner, 95%)

Sideswipe is around the corner, and stands up from where he was leaning on the wall to intercept Prowl. His twin remains in a combat-ready brace against the wall as Sideswipe smiles and waves. “Hi, hello, got a sec?”

“One breem,” Prowl allots. “You are meant to be clearing hall W before joining convoy B to 4-3-delta-1. This location will be retaken and everyone needs to evacuate.” He has said this several times, trying to force down the 7% chance that local personnel will mistake the temporary security for an opportunity to resume operations here.

“Yep! We did that, W nice and clear,” Sideswipe says, nodding vigorously, “we’ll catch up with the convoy, or something, there’s still sh—stuff to do here, right?”

“‘Lo Sides, Sunny,” Jazz drawls, in an oddly exaggerated variant on his usual accent (related to lies about his identity, 93%). “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I happen to count that the third ‘clear out’ you done ignored. Why the frag you still here?”

“Third—oh, you’re counting the code yellow!” Sideswipe beams at Jazz and Prowl steps to get everyone in his field of view. “You know about the yellow then, and, right, did you get the broadcast? Bunch of us—” 

Sideswipe elbows his twin, who, scowling, steps slightly away from the wall. They both look at Prowl. “We were actually sticking around,” Sideswipe says. This could be problematic (84%). “I’m Sideswipe and this is my brother Sunstreaker, both lately of Depot Ruintown, militia and logistics!” Both mechs ping almost standard military id.

The identification, as well as the station in place of city of origin is unusual, suggesting either deep naturalization (28%) or ::Military mercenaries?:: Prowl asks Jazz. “Autobot Prowl,” Prowl responds, pinging his open clearance id. “Of the Steel Promise, Tactical and Operations Command.”

::Yep,:: Jazz says. ::Of Kaon originally. Ex-Con since early days, clean break. Helped ‘em desert myself, good agents since.:: He watches, silent, stepped back, with an idly amused expression.

“Yes, told you!” Sideswipe glances at Sunstreaker, and briefly at Jazz. “Promise this isn’t even just about that clutch save just now! There was a broadcast, Jazz is finally throwing in with the Bots, and we were already thinking, well, slag, might be about time. And maybe he could put in a good word for us!” Sideswipe says.

Sunstreaker rolls his optics. “We want to join the Autobots,” he says.

“Yeah, that!” Sideswipe says. Sunstreaker nods once — agreement? and steps back again. “So, can we, uh, enlist?”

Jazz is too skilled an actor to look _overtly_ panicked, but his face fixes (in _panic_ ) and his weight goes unusually still (in _dismay_ ) and it is — it is _hilarious_ and Prowl laughs out loud.

Sideswipe’s smile broadens. “We’re good in a fight, any fight! You’ll be lucky to have us!”

“Probably,” (85%) Prowl says. (Jazz looks increasingly alarmed and it continues to be amusing.) Prowl focuses politely on the twins. “I cannot process you here. I can register your intent in the coordination communications, and we’ll begin the formal procedure once we regroup with a larger force, elsewhere. Will someone else take over your spokesman role for the remaining Neutrals?”

“Really? I mean, great!” Sideswipe’s hands jerk like he is stopping himself from clapping. “We won’t let you down! And yeah, I already talked to Xe’ejad about the spokesman thing.” 

Sideswipe pauses and looks around. (They are in K-0, cleared of injured Decepticons, still spattered with wires and energon.) “Xeej!” he calls. “Bots said yes, you’re point for ‘kick everyone out’ duty.”

“Gratz, Sides!” A fluffy head pops out at knee level from the doorway to KM, a goraaxian peering into the hall. “To West Ruintown?”

“Yes.” Prowl steps into KM, where they have assembled a temporary field office on top of the temporary field office assembled by the Decepticons. It is where the best computers are. “Is there communication for me?”

The two dead Decepticons remain where they fell (Redline’s frame is marked with superficial damage Prowl does not remember, small scratches and dents) and three goraaxians and two cybertronians at workstations around the room stop chattering as Prowl walks in. 

Xe’ejad hops along and climbs piled machinery to nod at Prowl. “Yep.” He gestures (his claws are cracked with wear, leaking a few drops of fresh blood from broken quick) to a terminal. “Batch of eyes—uh, optics-only for Prowl. That’s...” he squints between Jazz and Prowl and correctly ends on Prowl. “That’s you, right?”

“I am Autobot Prowl of the Steel Promise, Tactical and Operations Command,” Prowl confirms again, pinging his id generally. 

There is a distinct pause as the collective attention of the trade post survivors shifts to Jazz. Jazz waves and pings an (extremely stripped) id. “Autobot Jazz,” he says with a bright smile, tilting his head like he is reading his own ping. “Of... New Horizon.” A feeble lie, only a prop to lead to the better lie.

The attention on Jazz intensifies. The twins stare with overbright optics. Sunstreaker frowns. “Inventory?” he reads off the ping. Jazz is brilliant.

Jazz laughs. “Ah, still gotta get that updated. Yeah, inventory! Prowler, didn’t ya want Jumpstop and Akidi’s beacon check-ins?”

“Updated to slaggin’ what?” Sideswipe says, and he is watching Jazz with delight, but he appears to be speaking in aside to one of the goraaxians as he helps the organic gather up flimsies. Everyone will now believe Jazz to be Autobot Special Operations, accepting Jazz’s flagrant dishonesty without understanding how deep it truly goes.

A mech (Jumpstop, presumably) and an organic (Akidi, presumably) chuckle and turn to Prowl. “What about the beacons?” the organic asks.

Prowl did not actually know who was managing the beacon retuning. He does, however, need that status update. “We will need the beacons functional as soon as possible, to enable secondary relocation,” Prowl instructs, “the position is extremely tenuous and will be retaken by Decepticon reinforcement in the next decacycle,” 94%, “or as soon as three cycles from now,” 47%.

There are scattered nods around the room. A goraaxian and a mech huddled together look at Sideswipe and then Prowl. Sideswipe makes an uncertain noise and Prowl turns to him. 

“Uh,” Sideswipe says. “Or when the containment field generator fails and all the prisoners get out?”

Prowl takes a steadying vent cycle to weather the sudden turmoil that statement throws on all his plans. “Is that going to happen?” he asks.

The other mech who had looked up shrugs. “At some point. Maybe a cycle, maybe three. I _was_ thinking some of these timelines looked optimistic. I guess I assumed we were going to kill the Cons on the way out.”

No one in the room is still working on their files or side conversations. They are all looking at Prowl. “We’re killing all the Cons on the way out, right?” one of the goraaxians asks.

“They have surrendered,” Prowl notes, indulging in a brief and secret regret over the complexity introduced by that. “They are now entitled to limited non-combatant protections.” The newly disclosed fault in the prisoner containment is a major security issue (early intel spread, 7n%, potential re-engagement, [567]+%) that impacts Prowl’s core plans. He frowns. He should have been told this much sooner. 

“Holy shit,” someone says. “We’re going to let them get out? We’re going to let them get out and chase us down and kill us. Seriously? Holy shit.”

There is some chance of that. Some, {k|3 - n6} highly variable chance. Net expected life value in the treatment of demonstrated hostile elements has too many factors pressing in too many directions, and projection past mid term is unreliable, and rules of procedure do not technically apply in a situation of mixed command (the rule, when in doubt, is to spare them). Prowl presses tac net for a usable margin of error, for a comprehensible chain of likelihood, or at least for a clear memory of an applicable precedent.

A whine of ultrasound distracts him. It is, of course (>99%), Jazz, who is leaning against a back wall, smiling lazily at Prowl and pretending to pay much less attention than he is. He is fixing his blackened optics on Prowl in some kind of theater (5*%) or reflex (8#%).

Prowl frowns at him. “Do you have something to contribute?”

“Naw,” Jazz says. “Just tethered to my boo. Carry on. Pretend I ain’t here.” Then, ::Morale-wise, you’re gonna lose ‘em some if you don’t kill the Cons. Blood for blood.::

Prowl parses through that, too involved in thinking through movements and intel flows to be sure he is following everything. “I am not good at pretending,” he says. ::I am typically not a popular commander.::

“Hah.” Jazz’s smile takes on an odd, asymmetrical aspect. “Just carry on, then.”

Prowl is missing something (87%). (The rule, when in doubt, is to spare them.) 

Prowl shrugs off Jazz and turns to Sideswipe. “Probationary Autobot Sideswipe,” Prowl says. He stands himself steady and confidently calm, and struggles to maintain sufficient optic contact to be polite while he rapidly enters details into a datapad. “The tactical value of further security does not warrant execution. I have added compensations into the final movement timelines. Please deliver this to Hopper, and this to—” the contact for the North team, who was...

::Blowout,:: Jazz offers.

“Blowout, immediately,” Prowl says. 

Sideswipe takes the datapads with a grin and a rushed salute and dashes off. Prowl does not watch him leave, already grabbing for a fresh datapad and bracing to face the inevitable questioning from everyone in the room. (He has so much to do.)

Prowl falls back into the endless administration of control and movement, trading coordination around the room before he gets to the waiting messages at the terminal.

He pauses before signing in. Autobot command is still adjusting to Prowl’s rapid updates, but they have been able to begin coordinating a number of local repositionings (siege shaken by the sweeper movements, 72%, follow-up required), and he expects high-security communication, plans, and supplementary information. Prowl retrieves Jazz’s visor from subspace and passes it over. ::I need to disengage the feed,:: he tells Jazz.

Whatever odd intensity was in Jazz earlier is gone now, replaced by an amusement that would seem false if not for how much Jazz is attempting to hide it.

::You got it, boo.:: Jazz promptly breaks their visual connection, saluting loosely and hopping to take a seat on the nearest section of desk clear enough to allow it. His optics resume sparking with error. Jazz waits for a second with relatively little sparking and shoves the visor back onto its contact connectors.

::How well can you see?:: Prowl asks. The visor should compensate significantly against the destroyed sensors, once the errors have healed slightly. (The visor is now sparking, at an 8% increase from the rate Jazz’s optics were.)

::Pretty well actually,:: Jazz lies, clicking ultrasound that tickles Prowl’s wings.

Prowl is careful to keep his laughter silent as he starts his tactical work. 

He watches Jazz peripherally, while he calculates routine logistics. ::To be clear and precise,:: Prowl says, without looking up, ::I never claimed nor tracked you as working for me.::

Jazz is flexing and picking at his hands, working congealed energon out of seams. He does not outwardly indicate he is listening, because he is a paranoid and compulsive fake.

::I am a tactician and strategist. My specialties are extraction, multi-unit operations, and bridge-aware space coordination,:: Prowl says, submitting a multi-unit operation plan. ::You were clearly sabotaging Autobot lines in the style of Internal Affairs.:: A few degrees more _aggressively_ than his understanding of the usual style of IA, but it is not Prowl’s department.

Jazz shrugs, camouflaging the motion in general bobbling fidgeting, a seated dancing. Is he— yes, 96% he is actually listening to music internally. He is also listening to Prowl, 99%. 

::Completely separate reporting and accountability chain. I never thought you worked for me,:: Prowl says. ::I thought you worked for Smokescreen.::

Jazz has a claw worked into a finger joint, and catches it there as he sits bolt upright, visor throwing a fresh flare of sparks. ::Smokescreen is head of IA!::

Prowl exvents, and does not meet the curious looks from the others in the room. ::You were pretending to be disinterested,:: he chides.

::Yeah, but, my Bot IA profile — I’ve been reporting to _Smokescreen?::_ Jazz frees his claw and settles his posture. He also rearranges to face Prowl and broadcast the fact that they are having a conversation. ::Smokescreen’s — _IA_ , yeah, that checks — hah! That explains the sketchy fragger vibes!:: Jazz laughs out loud.

::Secret, of course.:: Prowl hums. Jazz has demonstrated some discomfort with Smokescreen, and it seems more persistent than his general discomfort with ranked Autobots. ::I’ll admit that my personal relationship modeling is unreliable,:: Prowl muses, ::but you and Smokescreen are both known to make friends easily. It is somewhat surprising that you do not like him.::

::I like him fine,:: Jazz says, leaning back with a shrug. ::I don’t—I don’t trust him, okay? He’s...::

Prowl sends a batch of replies off to Smokescreen, and with the interaction styles there for easy comparison, he hypothesizes, ::He’s too much like you.:: Prowl smirks at the report he is reading. ::Sketchy fragger. Well. I like you both.::

Jazz stumbles a little with the force of sitting back up. ::You—::

::Is this related to your loud advertisement of your lack of trustworthiness?:: Prowl does not usually partake in psychological conjecture, but it is enjoyable as a tool to unsettle Jazz. ::You identify as untrustworthy, and you see some of yourself in Smokescreen.::

::Are you— Stop, stop, are you shrinking me right now? Unlicensed shrinking!:: Jazz laughs, hides his face with a hand and waves the other mock-defensively at Prowl. ::Stop or I’ll report you to the medical board!:: He pauses and drops his hands, frowning thoughtfully. ::Wait, is Smokescreen even a real doctor, or is that a cover?::

Prowl knows better than to let Jazz derail the conversation so he says nothing. The siege is mostly broken, though access between Horizon and Cattax remains dangerous and requires careful planning. He plots a movement course, looking for viable spaces for previously pinned units.

::I,:: Jazz says, eventually. He wiggles his fingers under the edge of his visor until he catches a spark, letting it ground with a small twitch. ::I trust you.::

Prowl switches to a less complicated report so that he can pay attention while still pretending to work. 

::Frag,:: Jazz says, exventing heavily and leaning against a broken console, ::I trust lots of — OP, Ratchet, Blaster, Hound, Ironhide? _Bee_ — y’all’ve got a lotta good people running around, and, and that’s amazing. But the bigger...:: Jazz looks down to his hands and flexes his fingers, starts picking again at a seam. ::I can’t do more than that. Okay?::

Prowl turns to look at Jazz, and he does not feel any ultrasound, cannot tell whether Jazz knows he is looking. ::Understood,:: Prowl says, though he is not sure if he has, not entirely. He fixes, still, on something. _I trust you_ , Jazz said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sideswipe: huh these Autobots seem ok. Alright, we’re in! Where do we sign up?  
> Jazz: woah, wait, wouldn’t you rather mistrust and angst about just war for 100k words while you slowly —  
> Prowl: Accepted, please sign here.


	30. Chapter 30

Prowl keeps his interesting confidential Autobot slag neatly encrypted and tilted out of view, even while Jazz’s view is mostly a sparkling headache of pretty nonsense anyway. His sense integration is settling, sure, but whenever Jazz tries to focus his vision he gets hot fresh errors, and the visor’s making this unpromising crackling noise from somewhere on the right. Jazz slips some plastic in to block the crackling connection, leaves the visor in place so he at least looks like a mech with a functioning and also blue optical set.

They’ve got scouts and messengers racing between here and 43δ1 and some Autobot waypoint around sector UU that Prowl’s trying to be vague about, so the depot scene’s a lively mess of questions and celebration and panic and herding people at varying levels of injured between places that are varying levels of on fire. Jazz orbits Prowl some — keeps him in short-comm distance — mostly lets Prowler do his thing and works on doing his own thing — cajoling and directing non-military people into doing slag that will keep them fragging alive in an exciting game of ‘whose voice is that’ with a bunch of new friends.

Cattax — what’s left of it — Ruintown runs as a series of semi-habitable pockets, scattered spots connected by secret routes, sprinkled with tech quality sourced from three civilizations and a hundred years. Moving the Bots and allies is a process of hopping and scurrying between salvaged buildings, and admin staggers along, sticking — Jazz and Prowl are stuck — to depot outskirts until they've made proper contact with some incoming Autobots and everyone’s been properly counted and directed.

Jazz skulks between moving groups of people and Prowl’s series of administrative hubs, vibe checking and pretending he isn’t wiped to slag by fighting and injury. It ranges between ‘not bad’ and ‘actually kinda fun’ for a solid while — people are psyched to be alive and Jazz is psyched for them! It’s just that he gets antsier and antsier as his mission high fades and blurry faces keep switching out and he needs to spend more and more of the time ducked somewhere secret with a wall at his back.

He keeps it together until it’s getting to bright afternoon and the glare is registering as flashes of visual error that sound like windchimes, until he’s been hiding more than not, until Prowl finally has a fragging moment without something needing his urgent attention.

A blur that is probably Scatterpoint runs off with a slug from Prowl, leaving Prowl mostly alone — looking around, doorwings spread as he reorients in the physical world, trying to find the next task.

Jazz pops out of his storage chest hiding place — makes sure to dive and slide to the side to avoid catching Prowl’s reflexive plasma shot — before Prowl can find something else to do.

 _“Jazz,”_ Prowl says, calm professional tone fraying hard as checks the room and re-safeties his blaster. “You have my comm. You can comm me. Why do you do this?”

“This way I got your attention!” Jazz grins in Prowl’s general direction while he closes the storage chest back up. “Can you—” Jazz accidentally touches a bit of hot plasma-spatter and shakes off the pain with a shrug. “I need a couple breems of help?”

“You require medical attention.” Prowl takes a step closer and Jazz lets him get in a once-over. “What, precisely?”

“Nothing surprising.” Jazz nods at an angle that doesn’t jostle the bits of lens and sensor that are loose in his optic and strolls past Prowl, out to a hallway, towards a little unmarked room that has a medkit and an approach that’s tricky to make silently. “Tape up my optic?”

“I am not a medic!” Prowl sounds kinda alarmed — which is adorable — he still follows along into the basically-a-medbay side room, and takes the kit that Jazz pokes towards his hands.

“Eh, second choice is Sunstreaker and I’ll take you pretty please.” Jazz doesn’t roll his optics — that slag _hurts_ — as he hops onto a crate, slips his visor back off, and leans encouragingly at Prowl. “Just pull out the loose scrap and stick a cover on it. Don’t gotta be good, just keep it steady and clean until—” Jazz says a lot of slag without thinking — fun way to chat, good way to sell a lie — and he’d been about to say _until Ratchet can get to it_.

“Um,” Jazz says. “Until Ratchet can get to it.” Huh, getting back to Ratchet is on his to-do list, slipped in without Jazz noticing.

Prowl doesn’t comment, not on whatever the frag Jazz is talking about. He gets some silver-or-yellow-or-rainbow supplies out of the medkit and comes up to Jazz, puts a careful hand under Jazz’s chin and leans in to study the busted optic.

Kaleidoscopic white-black-red-yellow-blue- _shimmer_ fills his view, dancing in and out of a picture of Prowler’s intent concentration and Prowler’s set of tweezers coming in straight in at Jazz’s optic. Jazz holds still — sinks some weight against Prowl’s supporting hand.

For all his ‘not a medic,’ Prowl does not fragging hesitate in ripping out a shard of crystal stuck against something that squeals at the pull. Jazz hisses slightly — he wasn’t _ready_ — Prowl’s grip tightens to keeps him steady. That sounds like a little bit of satisfied hum there, too. “Sadist,” Jazz grumbles, with a tiny smile that brushes Prowl’s hand.

“Consensual play only,” Prowl responds blandly, continuing to pick at lens shards — Jazz chokes a little trying to stop laughing, to laugh without twitching his face — frag, fragging _Prowl._

Prowl gets the big chunks first, puts them aside, and it hurts like repair. “I am sorry. It was my mistake,” Prowl says, without pausing in his task, “to insist on accompanying you. I did not realize the extent of difference in our maneuverability, and it exposed the operation to much greater risk than was required.”

Jazz takes a klik to follow that, and a half-klik on top to figure out how to react in a way that doesn’t jostle his face with dismissive laughter. “Aw, ain’t no mistakes, Prowler.” He smiles right to the edge of too much, and pats Prowl on the side. “Just unexpected layers as plans figure themselves out. You can’t tell me this didn’t work out.”

Little pause, sparkbeat or two. “Thank you,” Prowl says, soft, maybe a little uncomfortable, “for coming back for me.” He pulls out a piece of material that makes Jazz’s vision black out with a twinge of pain then come back — vision finally comes back clear enough for Jazz to see that Prowl’s frowning, for-real unhappy. “I am sorry that it led you to injury.”

“What? Of course I was gonna—” Jazz frowns back and takes the moment of reduced contact to focus on Prowl, ignoring a spark from his damage and a twitch of Prowl’s grip. “Don’t be fragging sorry, Prowl. I did what I wanted to do, and you made it into something that worked. Thank you,” Jazz says, tone more annoyed than grateful before he figures out what to tag on, “for saving everyone.”

“For—I—” Prowl tightens his grip on Jazz and dabs some gel into his optic, fritzing Jazz’s vision again. “Of course.”

Prowl works in focused silence for a while — flickers in and out of sight with Jazz’s glitching vision, but his touch is steady, the hum of his systems is steady, the warmth of his hand and his vents is steady.

When Prowl eventually speaks, his tone is measured, edging on wary. “I suppose there is no reason for you to know this,” he says, “but I worked rescue and reintegration after the decommissioning of the Kaon Pits.” He’s — technically Prowl’s making optic contact with Jazz, but it really feels different when it’s peering _into_ an optic with a micro-vacuum at hand. Jazz can respect the casual, offhand feel it gives the statement. “Though it has been long enough that the details are not easily memorable, I happen to know the location and reliability of a number of mortality records, and can verify their accuracy.”

Yeah, that about works with what Jazz knows for Prowl. Both the timeline — Enforcer, tactics and logistics, sent to an early crisis spot — and the information priority — doesn’t remember what happened, remembers where he wrote it down — make sense. 

“ZRF9-23XR, no name registered, tunnel runner of your approximate frame type,” Prowl says, calm and even and inspecting Jazz’s optic for remaining debris, “was identified by a batch mate from bodies retrieved after a bombing. He is dead.”

“Oh,” Jazz says. Not really a surprise. Most cybertronians are dead, nowadays. But Jazz had liked 3XR, and he hadn’t known for sure. “When'd he go?”

Prowl pauses a little, gathers up pieces of some kind from the medkit, and studies Jazz appraisingly. “134.2, during the second recapture.”

Damn, dead longer than he was alive, at this point. Huh. Jazz shakes his head a little — that feels _much_ better without loose slag rattling around. “Well.” Jazz ain’t great at eulogy, never is sure what to do with people after they stop being alive. “‘Til all are one.” 

“Why did you lie about your name?” Prowl says, holding some medkit thing but not looking at it.

Jazz clicks a quick check for anyone nearby — looks around too ‘cause he can now — and finds no one else listening, probably. ::Ah, I know I can pass for 3XR to an acquaintance,:: he tells Prowl with a half-smile. ::And I, uh, dealt some with the twins in person as Meister, and turns out Sides is weird good with faces, so I tossed him a distraction.::

An angry _click_ , unsuccessfully throttled, turns into a buzz of irritation from Prowl and Jazz sits up, wrestles his visual into a picture of Prowl glaring at him, half-glued optic patch put aside. "Why did you lie to me?" he says, calm enough to come back ‘round to sounding angry.

“What?” Jazz has lied to Prowl a ton, but they talked about his name and— “Oh slag!” Jazz’s optics flare and send a brief wash of static over everything. “Wait, wait, ZRF9—That can’t be my sparked serial!" 

Wow, frag, yeah, there’s a _huge_ gap in times and places that would even make that possible — there ain’t a whole lot of reason for 3XR to come up, so ain’t _too_ absurd he never noticed, but still, “I never even hardlined 3XR.” Jazz grimaces. “How’d that... huh...”

“Where are you actually from?” Prowl says. He’s not moving, just looking at Jazz, and Jazz thinks, by the flavor of disbelief he can hear, that Prowl’s figuring it out.

Jazz picks a smile, points back towards Prowl. “Ain’t important.”

“So tell me,” Prowl says, still not moving, voice forced calm like he cares about this for some reason. “I am curious.”

“No, I mean—” Jazz shrugs. “It’s important, for a background, but I figured it wasn’t important, in terms of...” Jazz gestures vaguely around them. At them, at the world.

“You don’t know.” Prowl keeps staring at Jazz, all judgey, even as he picks the optic patch back up and glues another layer of substrate.

“Hey,” Jazz says, starting over from a smile and a shrug, “so, you seen how I got my brain set up.” It’s complicated, delicate work. He’s not _damaged_ , not really, he did almost all his memory work on his own, and he’s fragging good at it. Now. “No one is sparked this good at automnemosurgery.” No regrets, no mistakes, but “It, um, it takes some practice.”

"You don’t know who you are." Prowl’s voice is quiet and calm, ‘cause he’s his own kind of liar.

“Excuse you very much, I know exactly who I am,” Jazz says, with some actual anger — he means it — he can’t really hold onto it though, melts to a little wriggly shrug and wry smile. “I just...ain’t entirely clear on where I’m from.”

"You don't know your designation." Prowl’s a little louder, little — what, upset? Sure, it’s sometimes inconvenient, but c’mon.

"It's in here somewhere, I got good guesses!” Jazz says. “I know it weren't nothing special.” He _has_ his memories, it’s only his sorting that’s fragged. 

“Look,” Jazz says, before Prowl makes him pick through those guesses. Prowl hasn’t stopped looking at Jazz in a bit, and Jazz doesn’t know what to do other than smile a bit harder. “Let’s agree that I was sparked a liar, and skip ahead to the relevant bits."

“You don’t know what is _true!”_ Prowl says, and, okay, yeah, that’s maybe kinda tough for him to be comfy with.

Jazz shrugs and sighs. He tilts his head at Prowl, watches him blur in and out of focus. Prowl dislikes incomplete information. “If it helps,” Jazz offers, “the Polyhex musician origin is my favorite.”

“It,” Prowl says. Then he doesn’t follow it up, so Jazz guesses he’s struggling to figure out whether or not it helps. Still without breaking the staring much, Prowl comes back into repair range, holds the patch and bolster against Jazz’s optic to measure fit, trims off a bit of excess material.

Jazz leans back into Prowl’s careful — always, everything about this mech is careful — repair, wraps arms around him in a way that braces them steady together. “Didn’t mean to lie, there, boo. Sorry.”

“I...” Prowl says, and he’s had a long day, so Jazz don’t worry much about him trailing off at that. Prowl’s still got good range of motion so he’s got no need to break the contact as he continues the repair. Jazz basks in how very nice it is to trade a sparking sensory wound for gentle close contact with Prowl.

Jazz stays like that, doesn’t pull back until he hears someone coming towards their room — hasn’t been too long, they are still in active relocation — his optic feels good and his visor snaps on error-free, so Prowl was at least finished enough to stop for at least some of that time. Jazz has a lingering smile and a lingering touch on Prowl as Prowl turns to the door.

The engine sound’s familiar, even under the warping rattle-click of systems settling out of hard driving, and the id ping’s encrypted Autobot. The figure who opens the door is small, yellow, and saluting with a cheery whistle, so Jazz doesn’t really _need_ to retune his visual to identify Bumblebee — seeing Bee’s excited face is entirely worth it anyway. Jazz waves.

“Scout party H arrived, reporting in sir, hi Prowl!” Bee says. His voice is almost entirely better, or he’s pushing it too hard. “I’m supposed to tell you we’re clear and then take you to the rally point? Hi Jazz!”

“‘Ello Bee.” Jazz smiles at Bee, stretches, and flashes his visor through an optical test that gets results that’ll pass for unimpaired. “You need Prowler?” he asks, splitting the difference between the Kalis accent he’d started on with Bee, the light Polyhex-via-Iacon he’d been easing into at New Horizon, and the deeper Polyhex he’s been swinging all day. Autobots arriving, who the frag is he, again?

“Yeah!” Bee says. “Or both of you. My orders basically just say ‘do what Prowl says!’”

“Jazz needs to lead a group along a variant route” — and not see the exact Autobot rally points and movements, sure — “and will meet us later,” Prowl says, nodding at Bee and stepping away from Jazz. ::Your accent is all over the place,:: he comments at Jazz without looking.

::Fight me,:: Jazz says, still smiling at Bee. “Y’all get on, I’mma gonna find my group, gotta put up this med slag first.”

Prowl pauses at the door, at the edge of splitting more from Jazz than he has since intercepting him in a crater.

“Right, then.” Jazz salutes loosely. ::Places to be, people to kill.::


	31. Chapter 31

Prowl makes sure to mark off more time than he needs, to leave assuming delays, and to arrive with a time buffer, so that he is sure to get there first. Accordingly, he waits a while. 

He brought a datapad, of course, and he works idly on territory assessments (sector 4J almost lined up for control, 96%). The screen mostly remains off though, and Prowl mostly waits, thinks, and listens. Jazz, he knows, has both the ability and the standard inclination to constantly listen for incoming visitors, and Prowl wonders how much louder or clearer the background beeps, machine fans, and electrical noise here would register to him, puts together a prediction of how much sooner (based on audio handling while sense-integrated, 64% over on range, giving about three kliks additional warning time) Jazz would have been able to hear someone coming.

Prowl switches his working datapad for an older (travel-durable, sixteen vorn old and very much dead) one when he hears the faint shifting at the vent grate and he turns to face the proper direction as Jazz drops into the room (remarkably silent for a metal creature falling several mets) and makes his way to the console where Prowl is seated.

Main lights are out in the comms room and it is dim, but with visor glow and close proximity it is very clear when Jazz registers ‘unplanned company, _trap’_ and Prowl makes sure to shield his throat and face behind the datapad. Jazz’s knife embeds through the datapad at an off-angle and with less depth than a full force throw would give (he managed to pull the throw, 94%).

Jazz’s expression, when Prowl looks up to find it again, is _aghast,_ and his plating wavers under competition between a flare reflex and a forced calm. “Fragging _Pit,_ Prowl,” he whispers, locked visor light not successfully hiding his rapid, repetitive checking of his thrown knife and Prowl’s vital points.

“Oh.” Prowl smiles. “I see,” he says. “That is very satisfying, I understand why you like to startle people.”

“We’re camped at Q-1-iota,” Jazz says, which is true but not as relevant as Jazz is making it out to be. He makes a face as he checks the room over for more surprises. “We cleared out of here, it was a whole fragging thing.”

“Every transceiver there is heavily monitored, while this one is not.” Prowl, with some effort, pries Jazz’s thrown blade (plain cysteel alloy) out of his datapad and offers it back, hilt-first. “I came back. You came back.” (Prowl leaves the calculated risk of secret and unescorted travel implicit.) “Hello, Jazz.”

Jazz shrugs and gives in to a laugh. “S’up, Prowler?” He smiles crookedly at Prowl as he closes the distance between them and takes his knife back. “...Did you smash up the other comm stations?”

“Yes,” Prowl says, because he did. With the KM and D-4 machines destroyed, Prowl is now seated at the only unmonitored long-range comm terminal in the known area, with Jazz standing closer than is strictly socially normal. “What are you—”

Jazz deposits himself in Prowl’s lap, seated sideways, arms laced over Prowl’s so that he can reach and turn on the terminal.

“What—” Prowl starts again, and Jazz reaches back to cover Prowl’s optics with a hand while he types in his password and initialization codes.

Once the passwords are entered, Jazz drops his hand, lets Prowl see a hectic and jargon-heavy interface that features enough familiar templates and phrases for Prowl to broadly follow. 

“Jazz network updates,” Jazz says, hardlined into the terminal (to compensate for damage to the console) and tabbing briskly through check-ins, queries, reports. He flicks a dataslug from under his plating and puts it in Prowl’s hand without looking. “Territory shifts in sector A11, Cons got the codes for line 8-4-kilo-0, some moves and resets — chill Prowler, I’m dressing the movement like it’s related to Iver-4, you got my prepped updates there.”

Prowl plugs Jazz’s slug into a spare datapad and checks the contents (updates related to territory shift in A11, data breach on line 84K0, and activity on Iver-4) with half-attention while he watches Jazz respond to a considerable backlog of confused agents. “You burned your network,” Prowl notes.

“Told ‘em not to help me.” Jazz shrugs. “Didn’t say I wouldn’t help them, and you listen to ‘Cons got codes for 8-4-kilo-0’ even if it’s the Bots telling ya.”

Jazz’s network has been in chaos, more than Prowl honestly understands. It is not, actually, why Prowl needed to be here. Prowl gives the slug back to Jazz. 

“Are you going to pass information to Soundwave?” Prowl asks.

Jazz smiles without looking back, huffs a laugh and notches the dataslug into the terminal. “Aw, you know me,” he says. His smile sticks (too long to continue seeming natural) while he marks the data for upload, then fades as he tilts just enough to look back at Prowl. “Am I?”

Prowl reviews his analysis. “38%”

Jazz laughs, hard enough that Prowl has to brace to continue supporting his weight. “Yeah,” Jazz says, nodding thoughtfully, “I feel 38%” He brings his laughter down into a sigh and passes another dataslug back to Prowl. “Also got this one in internal, obviously.”

This dataslug is encrypted with Decepticon keys. Prowl cannot read it with the tools at hand (85%) and is unsure what exactly he is meant to do with it, and then Jazz covers Prowl’s optics again while he switches his credentials.

When his credentials are again set, Jazz again removes his hand from Prowl’s face, but he does not reach back to the console as he did before, instead twists and leans back to settle against Prowl, slings his arm over Prowl’s shoulders.

“Might do it.” Jazz catches the top of a wing in his hand and gently plays his fingers along the edge in time with the idle tapping his other hand makes at terminal (where he is _hardlined in_ ) and Prowl realizes, briefly stunned by his own idiocy, that in Jazz’s easy embrace ( _pinned by Jazz_ ), he does not have the means to physically prevent Jazz from doing whatever he will right now.

At this level of contact, Jazz must (98%) notice the sudden slack horror in Prowl’s frame. He does not comment on it, simply loads and formats the data with what are presumably Meister’s credentials.

“If you were me, Prowler,” he asks, “would you do it?” He pulls up a report addressed directly to Soundwave, a simple spotter record (‘Autobot High Command confirmed on GHX-9, Cattax, cut from support’) which he scrolls through, replacing shorthand with proper coordinates, names, and locations (better intel (entirely excessive)).

“No,” Prowl says. “Decepticon victory would be unacceptably destructive for the universe at large.”

“Ugh.” Jazz pulls an exaggerated frown and makes a (goraxiaan, impressive mimicry) gagging noise. “Ew, ideology. I don’t do ideology,” he lies, visor fixed on the terminal screen. (In the report, a comma flickers to a period and back again.) “C’mon: if you were me, and the thing you wanted the most was for the war to end.”

“Then.” Prowl feels his expression pinch and he deliberately flattens it back out. It does not work like that (it is more _complicated_ ; a conquest does not simply _end_ ) but he knows what Jazz means (it is not that complicated). There is a (there are several) war(s) on. This would end it (one). “Yes,” Prowl says. “I would.”

“Yeah.” Jazz nods, and half of his mouth twitches like a smile.

(If he was fishing for that answer then, as _irritating_ as theatrics are at this moment, at least it is over with.) 

“Yeah,” Jazz says, “‘s why you probably wouldn’ta ended up in this clusterfrag. You, Prowl, are so fragging _sure_ of slag.” 

Prowl calculates the reaction delay (0.7 nanos, 4% chance) that would allow Prowl to disable Jazz before he could send the file.

Jazz laughs softly, taps Prowl’s wing for punctuation. “Kinda scary, honest,” he says. “But... I like it? Or...”

“You like me,” Prowl tests. “Like us, enough to at least shy from active sabotage.” He sounds unsure. He is unsure, he is unsure whether it is true (*%), and whether it matters (*%).

“Nah,” Jazz says easily, smile stretching to — sad? “I mean, I like you, but it don’t matter — I like everyone, _like_ is fragging useless, I don’t make the crazy choices for _like.”_

Jazz continues to watch the terminal, continues to pet absently at Prowl’s wing, and fidgets with the file formatting (required delay fluctuates to 0.9 nanos, 6% chance).

“Everyone I loved in the Cons died ten vorns ago,” Jazz mutters and Prowl’s sparkrate increases sharply (tac net remains weak with motive, but vengeance is a simple concept, and Jazz’s allegiance is so very clearly precarious).

(‘Jazz does not _know_ ’ shifts up several percentage points; margin of error somehow increases; tac net churns uselessly.)

Jazz makes a vaguely pained humming noise. “Shouldn’t matter,” he says. “And I _know_ Prowler, it ain’t _right_ , ain’t — I know you wouldn’t weigh _love_ in a call like this, and, and I promise it ain’t — ain’t just that.”

Prowl has never been in an analogous circumstance. He certainly does not ordinarily approve of personal relationships leading to tactical re-prioritization. At the moment, he cannot _breathe_.

“I ain’t you.” Jazz’s hand tightens slightly on Prowl’s wing, a light counterbalance as he slumps his head back, rests it against Prowl. “I’m a fragging _mess_ and I don’t _know_ slag like you do, and you don’t do something like — I won’t do something like up ‘n kill everyone when I _don’t know_.”

Prowl is afraid to move, to vent, to speak. Jazz is heavy against him.

Jazz tilts his helm, and Prowl can feel him shift weight until he finds an angle that both is comfortable and allows him to make optic contact with Prowl. “You’re kinda mixed up, too, y’know,” Jazz says.

Prowl frowns, and Jazz grins, a grin like they are just talking.

“You let everyone think you’re this ruthless cynic, always gonna make the safest play, but your fragging actions give you away,” Jazz says.

“You are saying,” Prowl says, and his voice sounds steadier than he feels, “that I act more idealistically than I claim.” Prowl should not discourage this impression, _especially_ not at this _particular_ moment, but he does not _understand_. “An unusual opinion,” Prowl points out.

“Sure, whatever.” Jazz rolls his optics and somehow turns it into a nod and smile. “When we were in the smelter and you got my map. You didn’t even think of killing me.”

In the smelter, on the Inevitable Advance? That was a _while_ (not long, absolutely) ago. “Of course I thought of killing you. It was a straightforward thing to consider,” Prowl says, “it simply had no merit.”

Jazz sits up enough to swivel so that he is approximately facing Prowl. “I’m slaggin’ dangerous, and that was the only thing you knew about me at that point,” he scolds. “Lotta people woulda shot me.”

“Idiots,” Prowl says. What should he say? (What are they talking about?)

“Point is.” Jazz shakes his head and casts his view back towards the terminal. “You make like you’re this scary pragmatist just running the numbers on who’s gonna live and who’s gonna die, but you still got that silly idealism. End of the day, you want things to be better, and you got the _wild_ belief you can make ‘em better.” Jazz shrugs, fidgets — uncertain? “You’re an idealist, too.”

Prowl does not see it, but he finds the prospect of Jazz changing his mind frightening, more deeply than he entirely understands, and allows himself to not argue.

“Ain’t just you though, or Orion, or — ain’t just any single — y’all shoulda killed me,” Jazz says. “Plenty of times, plenty of reasons. But you didn’t. And I guess.” Jazz shrugs. “Maybe I should kill y’all. But I won’t.” He vents. “I wanna be in a world where letting me live was the right call,” he mumbles, almost — embarrassed?

Prowl is tempted to try to disconnect Jazz’s hardline and resecure him. He refrains, continues to hold perfectly still.

“Anyway,” Jazz says much more brightly, leaning forward (resettling in Prowl’s lap with a bounce) and saving out of his terminal work, “here’s the part where I’d delete my line to Soundwave, or burn Meister, or —”

Prowl chokes on nothing, switching from a desperate inability to prevent Jazz’s malice to a desperate inability to prevent Jazz’s _dramatic flair,_ twitching uselessly (what would he even grab?) and Jazz snorts, nodding.

“— but yeah. Valuable slag. So.” Jazz logs out and disconnects with a chuckle, meeting Prowl’s gaze in their reflection as the terminal screen powers down to darkness. “You’ll hafta settle for a purely symbolic gesture of sincerity,” Jazz says, and turns and kisses Prowl.

It is a brief, soft kiss, confident and deft but more _subdued_ than anything Prowl associates with Jazz, a gentle press of lips against Prowl’s, gone before he can mobilize a response. 

“I ain’t gonna betray you,” Jazz murmurs, forehead briefly resting against Prowl’s.

Prowl (loses some time to traces of glitch and) is still sitting there, _physically dizzy_ with warmth and _Jazz_ , inconveniently _distracted_ by a forced flare of repeatedly muted threads (what is Jazz doing what is Jazz _thinking_ what _why_ ), when Jazz dips off of Prowl’s lap, twirling to his pedes in neat motion that lets him land another kiss, on Prowl’s cheek, with what feel like smile-twisted lips.

 _“Jazz,”_ Prowl manages while Jazz takes a light step away, turns on Prowl’s datapad (the one with the report dataslug, in Jazz’s hands as of sometime during that maneuver) and taps into the encryption options. “What was that?”

“Network updates!” Jazz says. He looks down and enters some validation into Prowl’s datapad. “And a DSO keyset, I guess.”

Prowl cannot believe (false, this is easily in-model) he is made to clarify, “The _kiss_ , Jazz.”

“Aw, just me saying I love you,” Jazz says, stepping briefly back into Prowl’s space to meet his stare and to return his datapad, “— don’t worry, ain’t like a _stipulation_ , and it don’t mean you gotta love me back or anything!”

Prowl checks his datapad (a field report; copy, annotations, and backup of Meister’s report as previewed on the terminal) on crisis-honed autopilot. 

“Nothing but a promise.” Jazz retreats towards the door with his arms spread in a slight bow, stepping backwards to better share an insufferable grin. “Unless you liked it.” He winks. “I liked it.”

He pauses by the door, grabs the edge and drums his claws on it, studying Prowl.

(Prowl has no idea what his demeanor indicates.)

“Think on it, yeah?” Jazz says, smile faded, half-turned to go (back out into insecure territory). “You know where to find me.” (Wandering off, emotionally restive, into insecure territory.)

Prowl sits up, and Jazz falters again (34% responsive to Prowl, 72% simultaneously deciding). Jazz winces slightly.

“Sector Q-1-iota,” Prowl says. He exvents, and if there is an associated warbling sound, it is as likely to be stress as laughter. He invents, to modulate his tone. “For safety reasons,” Prowl finds his driest Enforcer’s monotone, “we should travel together.”

“Yeah,” Jazz says, half-hiding his face with a hand. “I was gonna — if ya wanted, I was gonna give you space to, y’know, process. But we should buddy up.”

“We should,” Prowl says.

He watches Jazz watch him for a few seconds, visor bright, smile creeping wider.

“I do not mind,” Prowl adds.

“Well.” Jazz’s expression splits to a full grin. “C’mon Prowler,” he says, laughing and bouncing in place as if riled by the excitement of Prowl following at a reasonable pace. “Let’s go! Places to kill, people to be!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, all. Thank you all for brightening my 2020, and I hope everyone is warm and safe.


	32. Chapter 32

Jazz is — like he always seems to be — in a hell of his own making. He grins and makes an appropriate and in-character gesture of approval. “Dunno why you showin’ me special, but I’m happy y’all are happy.”

“Sure, sure.” Sideswipe poses to show off his shiny new Autobrand, beams and winks at Jazz — Jazz, some nobody tagging along as dumb muscle for Prowl, a spec ops show story that’s usually way more fun to play. The twins theoretically don't really know him, but it’s all very nudge and wink and everyone scoots to make space as they pull up a pair of seats and sit down with their rations. “Yeah, they don't usually let you wear the badge until you’re through to the oaths, but Prowl made a special exception for us!”

“Because we’re on the frontline and might get shot if we’re not wearing the right color,” Sunstreaker mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear. Mirage and Hound politely pretend they didn’t. Bumblebee snickers.

Jazz laughs and shrugs. “Side benefits,” he allows. Sunstreaker looks grumpy, Sideswipe looks excited — resilient mechs bouncing back to business as usual, Jazz is tentatively hoping. “Nothing too sketchy meanwhile? Gettin’ along with everyone?”

Both twins scan a quick not-quite-suspicious look over the Autobots in the group before nodding at Jazz. “Yeah,” Sideswipe says. “Friendly fraggers around here, huh?” He squints in study at Jazz, and laughs a little. “Y’know, there’s a lot of chatter on exactly what kind of torture and blackmail has got you stuck with the Bots.”

Jazz pulls off a frown that looks feigned on top amusement that looks real. “For little old me? Jazz, formerly of the Inevitable Advance, simple infantry defector,” he maintains, for deniability. And he shrugs. “Eh, decent assumption, happens it ain’t my deal.” 

Mirage hides it pretty well, but Hound and Bee are a little more obvious in the concern they check in with each other and then half-direct towards Jazz, at that. Aw, they’re worried for him now.

Sunstreaker tilts his head slightly, and Sideswipe nods. “The most worried people are the ones who haven’t known you and known the Bots lately, I think. Mostly. It is also pretty, uh — I didn’t really get it until I saw you and Prowl,” Sideswipe says with a wink, like Jazz’s thing with Prowl is something that makes things make more sense.

Jazz laughs — pretty sincerely, it’s pretty funny — and accepts it. “Friendly fraggers around here,” he agrees. Though — even without the dubious look Hound’s got, Jazz has to make a little noise of self-correction. “I mean,” he says. “‘Friendly’ maybe ain’t the exact word for Prowl, but we got an understanding.”

Oh wait, frag — they ain’t really come to an _understanding_ on the whole love thing — nice quiet drive, Jazz has nothing but tight fascination with Prowl’s charmingly vulnerable uncertainty — but Jazz is pretty sure they’re gonna need to at least do paperwork of some kind.

Hound spots Jazz’s sudden uneasiness and completely misreads it. He frowns and croaks an uncertain, “Is...”

Jazz is watching that worried look, was watching it tick a little at the mentions of Prowl, and he cuts it off there. “Prowl ain’t the torture and blackmail type, turns out. Best rumor I’ve heard is that we had a freak hardline connection and it turned me Bot. Hound, wouldya be okay with maybe sponsoring me for some unrelated guideline issues I just thought on?”

“Uh,” Hound says. “Maybe?”

“Cool,” Jazz says. He takes a sip of running-retreat-quality energon and blinks. “Oh, right! Hound!” Jazz points at Hound. “Friendly fragger.” Then at the twins, and around at the rest, a clutter of mechs sitting on mismatched chair-sized things loosely pulled up to a table-height rubble heap. “Sunstreaker, Sideswipe: new Bots outta the depot. Mirage, Bumblebee: less new Bots outta some base. Everyone met?”

“Hi!” Sideswipe says. “Bumblebee, you’re new, hello! I’m Sideswipe. You, I remember from the first contact, Hound. And Mirage. We sent you to the safehouse, right?” Sideswipe’s optics flicker, though his smile doesn’t really. Probably remembering the news on the safehouse, in that distant ‘people died somewhere else’ way that may or may not hit him harder later. “Glad you lived through that.”

Jazz is tracing through his tracking of who knows what about what happened where — keeps it under a front of relaxed enjoyment of rations and company, lucks out and doesn’t even have to try to figure out how to get the conversation to — 

“Did you see what happened at—” Hound starts, and Jazz remembers his determined professionalism after they’d shared the news on the slaughter when they met him in West Ruintown. Hound had friends there, and not just Mirage. “Do you know if anyone else survived the safehouse?” he asks Mirage.

“I do not.” Mirage shakes his head. “I doubled back after delivering the group there,” he says, precise enough to dodge a creeping edge of static, “to see if I could be of use at the... trade post.”

Sunny’s staring at Mirage, slight touch of dislike — doesn’t take much to overpower the limited polite in him. “You can turn invisible,” he says. “Did you just hang out and watch them kill everyone? Why didn’t you do the electrical thing 3X—Jazz did?”

Sideswipe winces. Mirage tenses minutely, Hound bristles — on Mirage’s behalf, cute — and Bumblebee starts to flare too, but then he’s distracted paying more attention to Jazz. Jazz is pretending to be interested in his cube.

“No one knows how things could have gone,” Hound says. “Mirage is part of a bigger team here, and so are you now.”

Good mech, Hound. Jazz considers Mirage, who’s got this mostly hidden intense gratitude directed at Hound — little twist of surprise, little twist of — guilt? Hm. Or, horror. 

Jazz snorts. “You were w-waiting for an opportune moment, right?” he drawls, in a pretty bad imitation of Mirage’s accent, exaggerating the stutter he’s heard off the noble at times.

Sunstreaker — keeping an unfriendly look on Mirage — grunts and Sideswipe just — unphased, if kinda resigned — shifts to a better position to grab his twin if he needs to, but everyone else glances at Jazz with varying shades of surprise and hurt.

“Y’know, you almost cost the mission,” Jazz says, still grinning — different than he was. “Prowl shouldnt’a been in the field, but he was worried you’d kill me if you saw me wandering ‘round on my lonesome. Almost got both of us dead.” He’s shifted his weight, but sells it as general posturing body language, and the Bots are still staring more than reacting.

Jazz gets across the table and on top of Mirage without spilling a drop of energon — without a drop of anyone’s cubes, that is — nicks a line in Mirage’s joints as Jazz slams into him, gets Mirage knocked to the floor with a pinning grip against his gun arm and against his jaw — lands with Mirage trapped under him, claws at Mirage’s neck.

He plays the claws lightly at Mirage’s throat and leans in over him. “Wouldn’ta been an issue, far as I can tell,” Jazz purrs down at him.

“Jazz!” Bee says it, and Jazz can make him out scrambling to start pulling Jazz off, but it’s Hound — still down a leg — who gets — clumsy, dodgeable — arms on Jazz.

Jazz blinks at Bumblebee and lets Hound help him up off Mirage. He springs up and back, hands up, claws in, expression bewildered.

“What the flip, Jazz?” Bumblebee asks, clicking his gun’s safety back on — Jazz hops away from Mirage, keeps an eye on Bee’s gun and an eye on anything that’ll hurt to fall on if he gets pinged. 

“Oh,” Jazz says, meeting wide eyed expressions from the Bots and mildly confused ones from the twins. “Woah, um, sorry, sorry, I—” No one’s actively threatening him any more, and he can turn back to Mirage without causing protective panic.

“Um,” Jazz says, plating slicked in apology. “Frag, sorry.” He offers a hand up to Mirage.

Mirage ignores him except for a brief narrowed look before he gets up on his own, stands stiffly and brushes himself off.

“Fair, fair,” Jazz says. He snags his cube and downs the remainder, jumps back more to partially cut off Mirage’s exit. “That’s not how we do things here, okay, my bad, I misread that.”

Mirage brushes off both Jazz’s terrible apology and Hound’s hopping attempt to follow as he leaves. Jazz winces and nods.

Sideswipe swallows his energon — gulped his cube around when Jazz pounced, just had more to avoid choking on. “What was that sh—slag?” he asks, looking between Jazz’s awkward stance and Bumblebee’s confused one.

“Cultural differences, Sides,” Jazz says. Non-lethal posturing over who is and isn’t a fragging coward traitor, wouldn’t pull any attention in most circles Jazz or the twins have been in. He sucks a bit of energon off a claw before it can gum up his seams and sighs. “It’s gonna be fine, but it’s gonna be a process.”

Jazz smiles apologetically at Bee. “Let ‘Raj know I’m sorry?” He goes for an exit Mirage didn’t take, and points at the twins as they start to follow. “Hm, walk and talk with me? We should go over slag that seems normal but will make the Bots think you’re a fragging psycho.”

“Later,” Bee says, stepping fast to cut him off. “Can we chat?” He’s inserted himself into Jazz’s space, close enough for Jazz to pick up a bit of encrypted comm out. 

Jazz stops, smooth-ish retreat blocked by a resolute yellow mini. He waves the twins off and walks with Bee — lets Bee walk with him, it’s still the door — window technically, whatever, it’s a slagged building — he picked.

The window of the big hollowed-out store they’ve been using as common space leads into a pseudo-underground — bit of collapsed highway, tunneled through post-bombing to make a safe-ish warren of mixed-use buildings. Nice and private place to chat with someone who is technically a behavior monitor on him.

Jazz shrugs and looks at Bumblebee sideways as they get to a quiet bend. Bumblebee’s studying Jazz with a tiny little frown. 

“Ugh,” Jazz says. He’s honestly sorry to disappoint Bee, and lets that show in the dim light trickling through the broken tunnel. “I wasn’t gonna hurt him. I’ve been in fight mode and lost track of norms for a second, but I wouldn’ta hurt Mirage.”

“Oh, not whatever that was,” Bumblebee says with a shrug. He looks up and down the passage and steps in close to Jazz, expression serious and kinda nervous. “I just... um.”

He looks around again, almost biting his lip with indecision. Jazz lets him think through his thing.

“I’ll sign off on your time,” Bee blurts out, in a mumble-whisper.

Jazz tries to catch up with Bumblebee’s thing. Is he—?

“If that helps,” Bumblebee says with a vague hand gesture. “Or, if you need...” He fidgets, makes bright optic contact with Jazz. “I dunno about torture and blackmail, but also I can’t think of anything to ask where you’d say yes if it was true, and I know it’s actually more complicated than you’re pretending, and if you, like, wanted to... escape?”

Jazz takes a moment to just appreciate the little Bot ducked into his space, big optics fixed on him, all concerned.

“I can cover some time, or, if you need help getting your tracker out, or anything.” Bee shrugs again, nervous but gaining confidence. “You should be allowed to be Neutral, or, or a Con, if you want.”

Hah. Jazz goes ahead and smiles. He leans the short distance between them and kisses Bumblebee on the top of the helm, laughing and dodging back at the predictable bristle of annoyance.

“I’m serious!” Bee says.

“I know, but let’s say you’re not, yeah?” Jazz winks, and gets walking again. “Good thoughts,” he says. “And smart. It is complicated. But also, don’t offer to commit treason for sketchy mechs, Yellow!” 

He pauses, turns and lets Bee catch up. “And, I don’t need it. Nah, Bee, s’fine. I’m—this is...” Jazz shrugs, gives Bee a smile — who knows how Bee’ll read it. “I’m happy, ‘kay?”

-

::Hey, so, I’m still checking in if Jazz does something weird, right?:: Bumblebee comms, while Prowl is in the tactically less important but personally still very important part of a meeting. The station at the top of this cluster of rubble-conjoined buildings facilitates a remarkably high quality data connection and Prowl is finally able to have a long-range meeting. His personal comms are muted save for emergencies.

::Is this an emergency? This is an emergency channel,:: Prowl comms back to Bumblebee. “Optimus, I have been told something of strategic importance about Jazz,” he says to the projected image of Optimus. (New Horizon has received a patching shipment of R-lines, and communication there is 62% back online, priority to command coordination.)

::Dunno, maybe? No one’s hurt, but he just attacked Mirage for no reason and then tried to wave it off,:: Bumblebee comms.

“Oh,” Optimus says, glancing at something in the room with him (and gesturing off-camera for Ironhide to deafen, 83%). “Just now?”

Prowl pauses as he pings acknowledgement to Bumblebee. “No,” he simplifies. “During the interrogation before I left.” He studies Optimus carefully. “I became aware that Meister was an alias used previously by Jazz, and for all purposes they are the same mech.”

“Oh,” Optimus says, and not only is Prowl currently calibrated to read lies off of _Jazz_ , Optimus is always an abysmal liar. “Meister?”

“I was also told that you were already aware of this,” Prowl continues. “You should have told me immediately.”

Optimus is then in the position of contradicting his collaborator should he attempt to maintain the lie, and Prowl can see his relief at the changed ethical considerations. “Yes, I knew,” he says. He looks at Prowl with the steady expression that Prowl has come to associate with baffling stubbornness. “Everyone has secrets that do not need to be shared.”

“This does not qualify,” Prowl admonishes, grinding somewhat in exasperation. “How long have you known?” ({[3-8]k +/- ...} tac net picks through the known encounters between the two.)

And then Optimus _hesitates._ “We met in the med bay, while I was recovering from the drive over, and he confessed. I determined that his desire for anonymity was non-malicious, and would like to continue to respect it to the extent possible.” (That is not _precisely..._ )

Prowl mutes tac net and focuses on the better source. “So you have known since then?” he asks Optimus.

“That,” Optimus _prevaricates_ , and Prowl is disproportionately satisfied with his ability to read this interaction, “is when he told me.”

Someone pings him that they are at the door and would like his attention, and Prowl fully mutes his comm without a thought. “Optimus,” Prowl says very quietly, “did you recognize Meister, noted in record as an old contact of yours, when you met him, under the guise of Marshall, in the halls of the Steel Promise?”

Projector communication technology allows natural optic contact, so Prowl knows that Optimus is deliberately fixing his gaze slightly above Prowl’s head. 

Optimus has _preternatural abilities_ and what is the _point_ of them? Prowl narrows his optics. “Is this a _matrix thing_?”

Someone physically knocks on the door and Prowl ignores it. 

“Everyone,” Optimus says, resetting his vocalizer, “has secrets that do not need to be shared. Is someone knocking on your end?”

“No,” Prowl says, as the knocking becomes more insistent. “Optimus—”

“Oh, that must be me then, I will call if we start to deviate too far from your contingency scenarios, thank you Prowl,” Optimus says, grabbing a datapad and pretending to check his scheduling as he ends the call.

Prowl throttles a twitch towards the re-dial and checks his queued messages (Entry request ping from Marshall; ::Important talk,:: from Jazz; ::C’mon Prowler emergency,:: from Jazz) and opens the door. “What?” he snaps at the empty passage.

Jazz steps out from whatever random hole he was hiding in. He stands at a wooden attention, and is not smiling, is looking at a spot on a wall. (Posed at anticipating a lecture, 72%)

“Reporting. I assume this is about the fight thing?” Jazz says, as if Prowl called him here. (Prowl queues a reminder to complain about Jazz’s regular disregard for reality, later.) ::You got a way to detect Mirage?::

“Jazz, your assumptions have often been mistaken to tedious and painful consequence,” Prowl reminds him. “I suspect that that is, in fact, thematically related to the ‘fight thing.’” This is leading the reporter more than optimal, but it may hasten the conversation. ::I can ping him requesting his location. It would be obvious, but ordinary.::

“Yeah, yeah, live and learn. I kinda misjudged how big a deal it was to scuffle, and jumped Mirage ‘cause I was feelin’ fighty and he was an easy target for fighty feelings,” Jazz says with a shrug, a glance around the hallway, and a battery of ultrasound. ::Don’t do that. He’s the leak.::

“Yes, Bumblebee said you attacked him in a strange interaction.” Prowl gestures Jazz into the meeting room, which is secure, private, and has not had the door open wide enough for an invisible mech to slip by him. ::Suspiciously strange, Jazz. You probably (78%, high MoE) would have tipped him, were he the leak. You are lucky that he is not (98%).::

“Weren’t _that_ strange, no big harm,” Jazz grumbles, following into the room and lingering to block the doorway until the door is shut and locked. ::Am I that bad, or is Bee that good? Also, definitely is Mirage.::

::Both, 65%:: Prowl provides. The tight-range encrypted messaging that Jazz continues to use should be unnecessary in this room. Prowl suspects (84%) that the secrecy is more of a comfortable habit than a conscious security decision for Jazz, who is drifting along the perimeter to inspect the (former independent broadcast station, abandoned with electronics linked to salvaged generators lower in the building, serving as a dusty and airless but well-equipped) communication room.

“Did you have more to say?” Prowl asks. ::Mirage is our top espionage specialist, and has near-universal information clearance. Were he disloyal for the requisite time to be responsible for the mission leak, we would, 92%, already be dead.::

::Yeah, no, ain’t disloyal, damage ain’t catastrophic ‘cause Bombshell’s bad at his job,:: Jazz pauses from pacing the room and looks at Prowl. “I made fun of his stutter,” Jazz says. He is beginning to smile again, a slow, odd thing. ::Has he always stuttered?::

::No.:: Prowl frowns. “His vocal glitching is from damage sustained during the train shelling, though this is not a factor in the unacceptability of derision.”

“Yeah. Got it.” Jazz is watching Prowl closely, drifting towards him until he catches on furniture. ::Shelling east of Cattax, Bombshell in the field as point,:: Jazz says, shaking his head. ::You lose track of Mirage at all during?:: 

Three missed check-ins, before Mirage showed up unaccompanied, with minor injuries from close combat. Prowl grabs his master datapads, throws a battlemap onto the projector and starts rethinking.

Jazz is grinning outright now. He vaults over a low cabinet to join Prowl at the central table. “Cultural differences. You don’t—” he says, and he laughs. ::Y’all ‘ain’t sanctioned reprogramming in over 30 vorn’ and you beautiful idiots forgot what it _looks like_. You mean he’s had vocal glitching, or you mean, he’s had symptoms of neural integration issues common to hostile reprogramming?:: 

Jazz is leaning through the projected map to stare at Prowl. ::Top espionage specialist walking around with clear signs of hack damage and I betcha no one even scanned him!:: Jazz shakes his head again, projector light flickering over his face. His visor flashes dimly and he ruffles some plating in realization. ::Red woulda, so he made sure Red was down.::

In the scheme of difficulties in re-writing every single plan, Jazz leaning over the physical props does not even rank so Prowl ignores it and works around him. There is, Mirage was, he needs—

Contradictory assumptions error out painfully, and Prowl grabs Jazz for balance for a moment while he desperately fends off a threatening crash. “You are certain?” he asks, weak to a flicker of wishful denial.

“Dead,” Jazz says. He twists to sit up on the table, offering a steadier brace to Prowl and freeing a hand to gesture at the juncture of his neck and jaw. “Bombshell makes these mind control shell things, stabs ‘em in your neck, and I got a good look at the one on our boy. How quickly can Mirage get in short range comms distance of the Con camp at the windplant?”

“Three plus or minus a half joor.” Prowl has so much to adjust, and he does not have three plus or minus half a joor, because (based on the timing of the initial raids, 96%), “Mirage must have a cell or alternate relay system allowing quicker communication.” Responsive strategizing takes the vast majority of his focus, so his swearing is mostly incoherent muttering. “Do either Mirage or Bombshell know that we know?”

“Bombshell wouldn’t, not without contact, but—” Jazz hisses, and his swears are much more impressively vivid. “Dunno, how jumpy is Mirage? Your guess from before probably holds. Frag, bein’ honest on misjudging how weird it’d be to jump him—subtle’s hard when you don’t got the culture down. What’s the stake?”

“Security of, in — _lots_. I am comming Hound,” Prowl says, and Jazz is close enough to ([4-8]+%) eavesdrop as Prowl comms Hound, ::Do you know where Mirage is?::

::He’s... patrolling,:: Hound says. ::I think, unassigned, he’s clearing his head on a drive.::

(Mirage knows, 85%.) Prowl forgets to ping thanks before he cuts the line, and does not care. “We need—I need,” Prowl says, currently unable to condense an elaborate set of lockdowns, relocations, and communications into a single phrase. Prowl is not panicking (he does not have the free capacity to _panic_ ) but 

-

Prowl’s nearing overwhelmed, posture stiff-still with a frantic whirr of straining components underneath, staring at the map so intensely it almost looks like he’s spacing out. 

He’s got his whole ‘I have calculated all possibilities including emotionally difficult ones involving friends betraying me’ vibe — the easy way he dismissed Mirage as a possibility means a solid trust, deeply embedded assumptions that Prowl’s gotta be tearing out now, more strategy to rebuild than anyone can do all at once, and Prowler’s slag at clockspeed-constrained prioritization.

“Prowler,” Jazz says, and pushes himself against Prowl’s free hand the way that had seemed to help him earlier. Prowl grabs on — leans weight on Jazz like he’s freeing up processing power previously spent keeping balance. “High level agent compromised, knows he’s been made. You got a procedure, I’m sure. You need a terminal?”

“Yes,” Prowl says. “I need,” he says, and he jerks into motion — grabs a handful of dataslugs and plugs one in. “Back and forth. Batch now, and I, we, they need follow ups, for, because — traps. Scouts. Minesweeping by throwing rocks. Three batches 9k%, or if we can, two with... Two.”

Not full sense, that, but sounds basically like, “Dispatch now, and another in a bit?” They’re in a hastily modded old Cattax tele-studio — last residents peaced out one way or another some time recent — that’s small enough to be off the military maps, big enough to hook onto the comms grid with just a few jury-rigged wires. “You got everything you need here?”

Prowl switches out writing dataslugs with practiced fluency. “Yes,” he says — still kinda stiff, no longer choking on it. “No. Tocsin,” he says — switches dataslugs again, lining them up on the table in some kinda order — frowns, twisting a little in frustration trying to get the words. “Tocsin, toc—sirens. Start the general siren, then a dispatch dump here, then survive a half-cycle, then follow-ups.”

Aw, that sounds hard. “Can’t you delegate the follow-up?” Jazz asks. If it’s that clear that Prowl needs to get a second set of messages out, that half-cycle of survival is gonna have some active opposition, and their studio ain’t gonna hold out. “Or give good contingencies?”

Prowl flares, handling a question on top of everything else — Jazz is almost sorry, but not all the way. “No,” Prowl says. “No one else is _here._ Siren, dispatch, s- _something_ , dispatch.”

”Ain’t that complicated a ‘something,’ babe,” Jazz says, making sure his laugh doesn’t come off as mocking — it’s a good plan, it’s just also funny. “Sound the alarm and send out that pile of orders, then run and hide like scavs, then get caught using an unsecured station, fingers crossed not ‘till after you get the follow-ups out.”

“90-something percent,” Prowl affirms, without looking up from his data slag. He picks through slugs and pads and methodically subspaces them, plugs them into the terminal, or smashes their motherboards. “Starting in six breems.”

Jazz studies the projected map, gets a sense of how things are gonna move before Prowl wipes the marks. “‘Kay,” he says. “Well. I’ll go pull the alarm.”

Prowl doesn’t break his rhythm prepping his work — twitches a wing in an absent acknowledge-thank-you-dismissal.


	33. Chapter 33

Is Mirage currently running off to reach emergency extraction and start a Con response? Jazz doesn’t have the fancy tactical processor, but _someone_ cut the local rebridge cable out so that Jazz has to rip apart a nearby light fixture and livefix a line to get the Ruintown emergency signal all sent. 

“Battle stations, six minutes to move!” he calls brightly to the handful of folks who came over to check out the ‘smashing a light fixture’ sounds before racing back to Prowl to get on the whole _survive_ part of the plan.

Jazz shoves and shouts people into motion — bit of a balancing act to hit ‘no really put your shoes on or die’ without tipping tired civvies into panic, and Jazz doesn’t take the time to get it perfect, just does what he can on his way back to Prowl’s office. 

Prowl doesn’t answer his ping, so Jazz hacks the lock to get in and find Prowl moving pieces on three maps and glaring at a static-worn display.

Jazz gets in knifing distance of Prowl without a reaction, and figures he should stay there so long as Prowl’s prioritizing plans over spatial awareness. “He cut the cable in K4, northwest, so fastest place he could get is probs—”

“Site I-6-nu. Who—” Prowl grabs a pile of code cards out of a line and starts swiping them through a reader. “Do you know who ranks there?”

In a random Con checkpoint set up sometime this week? Not fragging really. “Guuutterpunch?” Jazz guesses, fighting an urge to put a random low percentage on it. “Don’t matter, Visrax likes to manage his own spies, Raj’ll have a passcode and direct line him. Frag. Where’s our safe line?”

Prowl nods and taps at an updating datapad, marking a swath of North Ruintown in grey — ceded territory. “We—I am forfeiting clean control at least to—2-L-9-5 (running val 6/3/-1) or sigma-8-6 (running val 5/0/-3) are exposed to the Cons at the depot and if Mirage gets...”

‘Kay, no safe territory yet. Jazz glances at the datawork to confirm it’s clearer than Prowler’s speech — plans for Bot and allies leaving or hiding around Cattax — and prioritizes keeping attention on the door. “Too late for me to go kill Mirage?” he asks. “Might curb damage.”

Prowl doesn’t pause in his updates — tilts his helm like half a degree, probably throws that consideration onto the pile. Slag like this is apparently easier to think through without having to show his work — Jazz fusses with his knives, resets the door, and listens for Prowl’s number assignment with half-attention, keeps a protective eye on Prowl’s methodical puttering around the office.

-

Expected value of sending Jazz after Mirage, queued neatly in the background, hits a string of high-noise covariants and tac net rebalances so harshly that Prowl loses a moment of sensory integration. He winces under the subsequent sharp reintegration, fumbling a dataslug.

“EV of you chasing Mirage, over current best is...” Prowl frowns. “4— 47%. 48%?” _Frag,_ too close, sensitive to model selection and to unknowns that he might be able to patch. (They should have secured the depot.) “Higher bands, and I may not—” survive, and calculations involving his own capacity are painfully high-stack-trace, “I do not—”

(Mirage is in possession of extensive tactical information (94% incl. maps of sector WW; previously hidden settlement) but has not yet passed everything on (98%cond for WW). (Movement casualty could ({`no closed form; s0`1/z}%) remain minimal (<100?; Horizon access at stake) if that pass can be ({k4|p/P(y)}) prevented; 0.4% otherwise.))

His hands are shaking, and he forces them still, though his working process is actually sensitive to the active uncertainty and he cannot continue it. The line to σ86 chimes for a transmission and he looks at it reflexively, as if it will provide useful information, (0.{i}%, it is an _outbox_ ) and he forces his attention back to the model, drops dataslug P2 into the _wrong_ pile. He needs to re-run the analysis on that — {k}(n)-% (Tac net is not designed for meta-optimization, besides which pre-favoring plans in chaotic condition has a risk profile which—)

“Aight!” Jazz grabs Prowl’s hand as Prowl fails to manage the dexterity necessary to retrieve slug P2, and physically shoves him upright (he was listing?). “47%! Aight, so we do the 53% one, c’mon Prowl, easy math!” (It is _not._ ) “What’s the plan?”

It is _not_ but with Jazz pressed into his space, Prowl can dumbly force (Jazz will resist the assignment) up in likelihood until tac net centers back onto previous best scenarios. Prowl nods and eases weight off of seized hydraulic systems and onto Jazz, settles back into the clear direction of, “Stay with me.”

“‘Kay,” Jazz says. He gives Prowl a squeeze and shifts (they are tangled) to grab dataslug P2 and move it to the correct pile. “Done with that one?”

Given no new complications for _five frelling breems_ , yes. Prowl nods. The Decepticons (93%) know most of the Autobot and local positioning in this area, and with Mirage aware of detection, they will (98%) be moving to press the advantage. Prowl knows this, he needs to handle this, he will handle this.

He squints at the blinking light on the console and lets go of Jazz with one hand to point at the master Team 6 pile. “Line needs those,” he says.

Comms Officer, 4th class, (and very physically adept) Prowl remembers as Jazz starts sending Team 6’s orders (and stays somehow in a reachable range of Prowl, coming in to meet Prowl’s tugs and taps as Prowl directs him to help).

Prowl makes it 13% (by projected timing) through outbound orders before local subcommanders show up to _help_. Two or three of them seem ([78]x%) to understand the shorthand the sector XU maps use (they are in _ink_ ) and Jazz steals the relevant scancard from Prowl and slips it to them, so Prowl allows them to handle the details on XU lockdown. (Jazz sends almost everyone away with a command, reassurance, request, or threat of violence, so he appears to be applying some judgement or knowledge of competence.)

By 68%, the interruptions die out as the camp evacuates (including one of the longer-lasting helpers, who takes most of the goraaxian-adaptive dataslug readers with him) and Prowl begins to receive confirmations and 0-stage check-ins, suggestions of something other than a complete disaster. They will not (as previously planned) attain clean Autobot control (3% / 11%), but they will not be fatally overrun (76% / 94%) either. 76% even if Prowl does not manage follow up, 94% if he does.

Success of follow up is a queued calculation, though it is already flagging high (ceding easiest access points (yes, because access is predictable and Prowl is baiting them), Mirage knows (and will predict some strategy (which is a circular dependency), which is a)) hazard. (It will be difficult to escape and follow-up, details pending.) Prowl saves a datapad to manage that aspect, later.

At 91%, Jazz looks up from his work resuscitating an overworked router, swears, and starts working more quickly. Prowl is mostly doing administrative formatting and has enough predictive reasoning free to be unsurprised when at 92%, the sound of Seeker field artillery builds to intrusive volume. Prowl is already working as quickly as is responsible and cannot speed up.

Over _99%_ when, in the midst of a burst of near bombardment (single trine at cautious blind-range, 88%) the power goes out. A backup coil crackles in an attempt to take the load (n% possible, tac net is not an electrician). “Aack!” someone says.

“Careful — ha!” Jazz springs across the room to catch the remaining goraaxian as he falls off the table stumbling back from sparks off the (melting, 98% will not compensate) backup coil. “Welp, looks like time!”

“The rest can work in a single batch,” Prowl says, reformatting the relevant collection. Station N8V5 will have to send couriers. 

“How important, hon?” Jazz asks, prying open the main door while Prowl destroys the last of the readable data. “I can try to —”

The signal relay is immobile due to wiring, not intensive power demand. Jazz’s hands are full with the goraaxian and the door, so Prowl simply reaches over and takes the most accessible knife from under Jazz’s dorsal plating. He stabs the knife into the power feed of his chosen console, and then into an electrical vein on his arm.

“Aack,” the organic says again. “You can do that?”

“In an emergency.” It has, however, been several vorn, and Prowl is not entirely familiar with this configuration. Jazz probably (93%) knows the appropriate voltage. Prowl looks over. “Jazz, how do I—”

“Much more carefully!” Jazz is already here, grabbing at Prowl’s arm and twisting pieces in his injury. (It hurts.) “I got a fragging mod for that!”

“I don’t know how to remove that baffle,” Prowl explains. He waits for Jazz to let go of the vein, and then hotwires the console and sends retreat and scouting instructions to Station N8V5.

“Wow,” the goraaxian says.

“Yeah,” Jazz says, resettling his knife and then the goraaxian, respectively under and on his dorsal plates, without looking away from Prowl.

“Time to leave,” Prowl says, once it is time to leave.

-

The warren — station omega-D-5-E — is too riddled with stairs and ladders to tear out of in alt mode, but hey, works out ‘cause it keeps Jazz from accidentally running down the aissevites straggling in the second floor access ramp.

“Five plus or minus two stragglers,” Prowl mutters, stumbling alongside as Jazz pulls him by the hand — Prowler’s still working, optics overbright and not looking at anything, prolly rating safety zones.

“Fragging get already, Liddic!” Jazz yells at Liddic without stopping.

“I can’t find Strafe!” Liddic cries back from the wall he’s clutching. He makes a panicked churr and climbs to check another window.

The other aissevite — looks like a hatchmate — grabs him and shoves off the wall, getting them both clumsily airborne and following. “Nope, yeah, we’re getting, we’re getting, Liddy we—”

“Strafe’s at a rally point!” Bumblebee calls from down the ramp and around the corner. Ey, Bee’s here, and he’s got a pair of goraaxians cradled carefully in his arms. “We’re the last ones here, ‘cept for O’aavl!”

“I got O’aavl — sorry, hold tight, sweetie.” Jazz tries not to scrape O’aavl off against a wall while he’s kinda sideways, trying to haul Prowl over the stupid decorative barrier down to the main hallway.

Prowl grabs on to the stupid decorative barrier, better to stop and frown at Bee and say, “You were to go with group X7. What happened?”

“Went, got to the place, and came back for taxi duty!” Bumblebee nods and cranes to look everyone over — aissevites can fly at a cybertronian’s jog pace, and Liddic and his hatchmate flap into the pileup around then — until he spots the goraaxian on Jazz. “Cutter drove over a mine, says he’s sorry he can’t get you!”

“Minefield maps for the sector are 83% reliable,” Prowl comments, not really to anyone.

“A mine?” O’aavl asks, climbing up onto Jazz’s shoulder for a better view as Jazz pries Prowl over the barrier. “Is he—”

“Cool beans!” Jazz says, mostly-gently encouraging Liddic’s hatchmate onto his free shoulder with one hand and tugging Prowl along with the other. “Run for our lives and talk, yeah?”

Names, directions, and last sightings get swapped as they go but it ends up being less talking and more running for their lives — seems about the right balance, really. Turns out Strafe is fine, the other aissevite isn’t a hatchmate but is named Khu, and everyone Bee’s contacted has managed to move before Cons showed up. Prowl says nothing, probably thinking routes, but that’s some future slag — Cons are coming, they just gotta get gone first.

Main exit’s blown to collapse — side exit’s better anyway, less visible even if it puts them outside kinda close to Prowl’s projected Con approach. They get some squat walls they can duck behind, in case the dust cover clears — the whole city’s got a layer of sand and dust that roils up to cloud everything blind once bombs start falling, but it’s a bright day and wind makes slaggin’ weird visibility pockets.

Initial exit goes fine — there’s plenty of driving terrain around here — big, overlapping splashes of leveled ground. Chock-full of mines, of course, but Bee’s gone in and out the area enough to know a safe route they can — once everyone is either buckled up or a car — take at speed. 

Bumblebee’s got them a course that takes some wild ramps over gaps and slips through fraggin’ narrow ‘sure, that can be a road’ bits of ruin — his passengers are clinging to his seats hard enough to kinda pinch but Jazz has no complaints because Prowl’s probably the Cons’ highest priority target in Cattax right now.

They cut a zigzag path to maybe a kil out from the warren before Bumblebee slows to something that takes less concentration and Prowl finally speaks up. ::We will head—::

Jazz hard pauses his comms. “Don’t tell me!” He hits the brakes as hard as he’s sure won’t whiplash the little guys. “We clear enough?”

Bee and Prowl probably can’t hear him with the wind and the distance. They’ll double back in a sec, probably. 

Jazz has maybe already left it too long, he doesn’t know — eases to a stop, pops his doors, and unbuckles his organics. “Liddy, Khu, go pick your favorite between Prowl and Bumblebee,” he says — yeah, look, they’re coming back. “I gotta split.”

“Why? What’s happening?” Khu asks even as she peels herself and Liddic out of Jazz — words barely audible under Prowl and Bee coming back, all crunching rubble and demanding, “What are you doing?” and, “Jazz?” and slag.

Jazz takes the time to get back to root mode — sensors ain’t that much better, but it makes him feel better about stealth, lets him duck for a little shelter from all the wind and Seeker engine noise, and lets him get his hand magnetics slapped over his, “Tracker. They can track me.” Not fully sure how he’s gonna handle it long-run, but he can scramble the signal some if he keeps his hand on it and frags with the EM just right. “Y’all should run, this is at least gonna be an interest point and Cattax ain’t that big.” 

Yeah, if Visrax knows what he’s doing — and he does — Cons’ll be setting a perimeter to cut them — Prowl — off from regroup, and hunting hard to chase ‘em down. And he’ll check Jazz’s tracker.

“Destroy it,” Prowl says as he pulls up near Jazz and opens a door — no, wait, that’s O’aavl, leaning out to sniff the air and look around. 

“Can’t,” Jazz says, more in tune with O’aavl here and trying to read the area for danger. Craters breaking up bigger craters, a lonely doorframe, slagall obvious landmarks. Mostly dust and wind, far as Jazz can tell, even when he gets out the scanner he stole from some closet. Sand, distant rumbles, wind, then one of those freak wind licks that gives them sudden visibility, and — 

_Hah_ , forget the fancy sensing, that’s a Con, that’s — hey is that fragging Trifoil? That’s a Con scout!

Maybe-Trifoil’s _close,_ stretching tall to squint at a beat-up street sign maybe a dozen mets away, close enough for Jazz to see his optics flash into a light spatter of surprised sparking. Bee and Prowl turn to realign and Jazz kinda wishes they hadn’t, ‘cause he can see the scout twitch to the movement and spot Prowl — recognize Prowl and start grabbing at his radio. 

“Run now!” Jazz shouts to Bee and Prowl as he leaps for the scout — transforms in stride and hits the ground driving.

The scout stashes the radio and transforms in a pretty impressive acceleration up to panicked fleeing. Trifoil — wasn’t Tri in Helex? Whatever, this fragger’s light and fast as Tri, which is _fast_ , faster than Jazz — Jazz ain’t gonna catch him — don’t need to catch him.

Jazz keeps after the scout — scout’s driving reckless like he’s panicking — Jazz drives reckless to keep up enough, to keep enough pressure on to buy time and stop him from getting that radio call out — revs his engine hard, hoping for a little intimidation, enough intimidation to keep the scout too nervous to pick a narrower path.

They’re sprinting over flat and Jazz hopes he’s not about to race face-first into reinforc— then there’s a _noise_ — too loud to have any other quality to it — and a burst of light and shock from the scout — from under the scout.

Jazz skids to take the shrapnel on his side — sturdier than his nose — and brakes hard enough to hurt, ‘cause _landmines_ get planted in clusters and that was a _fierce_ one — scout blew up with mets of lead and Jazz still gets a shredding lash of rocks and mech-scraps.

Nothing blows up while Jazz gets from spinout to root mode, and the scout’s — a light frame — grey by the time Jazz gets to him. 

It’s already a fragging mess, so Jazz doesn’t mind the swarf and energon getting everywhere while he gets a closer look. Scout’s in too many pieces to get sure on ‘ _was_ that Trifoil?’ — had some gear that survived the subspace shatter and had at least the same aux data storage mods that Trifoil does — did? Jazz kills the dead mech’s personal coordination beacon and gathers maps, unsorted probably-data, and random useful bits one-handed, keeping his other hand on tracker-blocking.

He’s on his fragging toes, and hears his company come in with plenty of reaction time. Picking through responses, he just groans and laughs.

“Did you know him?” Prowl asks. He transforms to root standing in Jazz’s tracks, scanning the ground for likely mine spots.

“Eh, prolly not.” Jazz shrugs. “Shares a lotta kibble with an old unit-mate, but we’re in the wrong sector, and, y’know, common frametype.” He squints at the biggest heap of parts, spots a twist of strut that might make a good medical hook. He goes for it with a side glare at Prowl. “You ditched Bee and the bitties?”

“One of them is not wearing a seatbelt,” Prowl admits, like _that’s_ the fragging issue here.

Jazz laughs — real, but also kinda mad. “Whatcha doin’, Prowl?” he asks. “I just bought you precious time ‘n you’re wasting it. Get.”

“No,” Prowl says, picking his way over. “Give me the knife you retrieved from the green minicon in H-T.” He reaches over to Jazz, palm up. “Bumblebee is going to U-Q-7, which does not have outbound communication facilities and will be cut from such facilities without external assistance. For an 18 percentage point increase in likelihood of New Horizon remaining out of Visrax’s control, I need 12 breems of access to a transceiver in six to nine joor.”

Sure. Jazz hands over the cysteel scalpette before he packs his salvage up for travel.

Prowl inspects the knife. “I am working on potential routes to gain necessary access, and ideally reach safety. 3.7 breems to route finalization, but in all working scenarios it is safer— it is more likely—” The knife twitches in Prowl’s hand. “If you.” Prowl looks up at Jazz, and immediately back at the knife when he catches optic contact. “I need you,” Prowl says.

Well. Sure. “Tracker, babe,” Jazz says. “You learn the extraction for that?” Prowl hadn’t brought it up, and Jazz had sort of suspected he was avoiding having to say he could but wouldn’t take it out.

“I...” Prowl looks up again — still flicks away from looking at Jazz’s face — looks at the hand Jazz’s got on his chassis. “...know where it is,” Prowl says. “And I have a very sharp knife.”

Jazz laughs, laughs and waits until Prowl looks at his face again before he nods at him. “Sure.”

-

2.9 breems into the procedure, tac net cuts in with a summary of (route analysis, update prioritizations, timelines,) enough information to temporarily numb Prowl’s grip, and the blade dips and scores a groove against Jazz’s inner plating.

Jazz’s humming warbles a note, but he does not physically twitch, and it is fine.

-

Jazz twitches a ‘stop’ and Prowl freezes in the alley he’d been about to step out from — backs up at Jazz’s shooing wave, making space for Jazz to scurry back in. ::Blown up,:: Jazz says, ‘cause it’s simpler than describing the exact laser flush the Con team did to take down their hopeful line out.

Prowl picked the route, Jazz picked all the sneak’s tricks to take them along it, and, slag, first dead end weren’t bad at all. Managed to get here quick enough to beat the perimeter set up — thank you Prowl — and hidden enough that the two teams of Cons running about the place don’t spot them — thank you Jazz.

Anyway, it ain’t running like scavs until you’ve hit at least one dead end, and now they’re running like scavs. Jazz is minus a tracker, plus some unsorted data ripped off a guy, and plus a white-hot target to escort — nets negative, but not negative enough to outweigh all the experience Jazz has with running like a scav.

-

Prowl tempers his frustration. The chances of getting access through VL9, WTJ, or A85 were low (7%, 3%, 13%). This was already known, and should not be disappointing. It is not disappointing.

The frustration does not settle until he sees the actively smouldering remains of ZE3, freshly bombed and inaccessible.

-

Niogk Square is crawling with Cons — fragging Crystalkeen’s around — and ain’t gonna be a viable foxhole after all. Makes sense, Prowl ceded most of the transceivers ‘cause he knew the Cons would go after ‘em. The trekking’s been grueling enough that Jazz runs a quick infiltration to check if Roihor’s hideout stayed hid — nope — then to snag liquids, patches, and map updates, to keep them running.

-

Mirage knows all the routes Prowl painstakingly marked. He knew that. He came up with more. There is one more potentially safe transceiver to check.

-

Welp, so much for that.

Frag, they started out kinda close to the main Con camp at the windplant — decent spot, decent infrastructure, crucial accesses, kinda easy for the Cons to shut out their exits. Prowl’s fussing with his slugs and pads, even though there’s no way it’s that hard to tell — there ain’t many transceiver options to begin with out here in signal-blocked Ruintown, and everything that ain’t already a bust is at least two outta Con-controlled, traceable signal, and heavily guarded.

Squatting in the hollow of a blown-out gutter, Jazz tops off his scarper-strained lines with some stolen coolant and pokes Prowl to do the same. 

Prowl looks up at him blankly, clutching a datapad like a kid’s talisman. Jazz doesn’t know the odds of them getting out of this okay, but the look on Prowl’s face — and the fact that Prowl hasn’t already said exactly — says ‘low.’

Mech could be with Bumblebee, doing whatever the frag he’s doing now, but not in hostile territory. At least he’s got Jazz — if 18 percentage points is worth pulling this crazy slag for, then yeah, Prowl needs Jazz. Also, coolant. S’been a lot of driving, and Prowl’s flagging.

“You should have remained a Decepticon,” Prowl says without uncurling from his hunched seat — legs and sensor wings drawn in like he’s cold — against the gutter wall.

“Uh,” Jazz says. That sounds like a stress thought. He eases the coolant pack into Prowl’s space, wedges it balanced in the crook of Prowl’s arm as Prowl continues spacing out in Jazz’s direction. 

Jazz settles back and scoots a little to lean sideways on the wall and face Prowl, feels a little dopey smile pull at his face. “You, uh. Kinda press-ganged me at gunpoint, Prowler.”

Prowl snorts and tries to cross his arms or something — quits that move to catch the coolant pack when it slips. “Not Ricochet. Ricochet doesn’t count,” Prowl says. He scowls at the seal — tab’s annoyingly small, yeah — on his coolant as he pries it open. _“Meister._ Talented, resourceful, personable. Not officially tracked to high command, but you should have been.”

Oh, that's both more and less funny than where they were a second ago. Jazz’s smile gets wider and sharper, and he tilts his head to rest on the wall. “Aw slag,” he says. “I’m dying, huh? They always appreciate you more on your way out.”

Prowl chokes his coolant with how hard he scoffs. He puffs a filter clear and wipes his face. “This is criticism. You were Decepticon command. You should not be here.”

“Nah, Prowl,” Jazz drawls. “ _Ricochet_ counts. I worked hard to not be command.” He lets his smile drop a little, go a little more true. “Command is for the crazy fraggers who want power and the crazier fraggers who _believe_.”

Prowl nods impatiently while he finishes his coolant. “Yes, you hid your skills because you recognized the horrors of the system that would direct them.” He subspaces his trash, sits up, and starts something with a dataslug in a port. “You are capable and aware enough, you could have, should have — you had a responsibility to attempt to _curb_ those same policies you declared yourself too squeamish to properly execute. Still could, 78% conditional. I may be able to give you enough Autobot intelligence for you to buy your way back into good graces, if—”

“No.” Jazz is sat up all of a sudden.

Prowl blinks at him, hands gone still again.

“That ain’t me.” Jazz shrugs, sags back to the wall, lifts a hand to wave dismissively and to hide behind a little. He finds a laserblade that needs cleaning and looks at that. “Didn’t wanna, don’t wanna.”

Jazz ain’t looking, but Prowl’s like half a met away so Jazz still sees him pause, pull the dataslug, toy with it, frown. “Irrelevant,” Prowl says, quiet. “You have to try. You could have tried.”

Maybe. He did a little. Most of command takes a steady campaign of lies and manipulation if Meister really needs to change a mind, but sometimes it could just be — _Meh on tac value, Sounders. Tell Shockwave I’ll fetch him a schematic if he’s that hot for their coil tech but it really ain’t even that good. They got sweet simgames tho, pass this to the twins and tell ‘em thanks for that Rust Sea slag, yeah? XOXOXO_ — a nudge from the right place at the right time. 

The laserblade’s got a misaligned bolster, Jazz works on that. He’s good at making — an unlocked door here, a dropped message there, an — an Autobot prisoner freed in time to run a coordination. 

Fun as lies and people are, Jazz doesn’t have the spark for proper politics. The Cons passed on conquering EQR-244 with the sweet simgames, but they might’ve done regardless of Meister, and Jazz doesn’t know how to balance that against running data out of Iacon against swapping salvaged trinkets with Starscream against frowning at Soundwave across a battle map against Megatron’s crushing grip after a failed mission. 

Figuring that slag out’s _hard_ , takes way too much juggling of short and long term consequences for big plans — 

Jazz stows the laserblade — actually got a cracked core, good thing he didn’t try to slash with it — and abruptly looks up at Prowl — at civic-minded, arrogant, calculating, _stubborn_ Prowler.

“That was your strategy with Sentinel, huh?” Jazz realizes.

That makes a _slagload_ of sense all of a sudden. Back in the day, Jazz—Stepper’d gotten a comfy sense of Prowl as a ruthless fragger — okay, that’s close enough — too preoccupied with rules to care about the _cost_ of the status quo — that, though. That doesn’t jibe with the mech Jazz saw in the rubble outside a burned safehouse, shaking and breaking down over the horror of strangers dying. His beautiful weirdo who dislikes interacting with people almost as much as hates letting them suffer.

The mech’s completely frozen at the moment, optics just a touch wide, dataslug clutched tight enough to creak.

“How’d that go for you?” Jazz asks, and Prowl jerks to look up with an expression that makes Jazz quick-check behind and click the area for the threat — but there’s nothing — but there’s only Prowl, _scared._

-

Jazz frowns.

Prowl flinches, straightens and forces every plate and strut steady, bracing. He lets himself break optic contact, looks at the edge of Jazz’s audial so that it might be easier to reorder his thoughts from how they are currently spilling into each other because Prowl _fragged up_ , he was not ready, he is not ready, and he scrabbles desperately for something he can say, trying to guess whether Jazz will be more likely to bring up Nyon or shadowplay (Nyon, 5*k%), Helex or the clampdown (the clampdown, 8y*%), whether Jazz has any interest in assignments or experiences of guilt, or in the calculations he made along the way.

Jazz pushes 6 degrees off the wall, angling his head to catch optic contact again. His expression does something.

“Prowler?” Jazz says, with some type of intonation. He watches Prowl, with — concern?

Jazz does not have a follow up condemnation (83%). He, he wants to know how Prowl’s strategy to temper Sentinel went. Prowl nods shakily, and Jazz nods back, then waits for Prowl to find words.

Words. Sentinel. “Given information available to me at the time, it was the correct strategy to minimize the expected level of destruction,” Prowl says. “It happened that the actual outcome was more destructive than a reservation payoff only calculable given later information.”

Jazz’s frown deepens, and then quirks with a soft laugh. “Sorry Prowl,” he says, “again, for those of us with a little brain damage?”

Prowl often struggles to be intelligible. He takes a klik, and tries again. “Statistically, it was the right choice.” That was important, that is important. (He _had to try_.) “Practically,” he concedes, “it had mixed impact.” (He should have done _better_.) “And...” And, Prowl finally identifies the strange flatness that runs through Jazz whenever he talks about Meister. (Regret.) “Personally, I was very unhappy.”

Jazz smiles, and it does not have any of the smug or triumphant delivery that Prowl feared. He nods, leans forward and turns to settle close enough that his heavy exvent tickles over Prowl.

Over a few vent cycles, Prowl is able to relax his frame from its earlier reflexive tension.

“So,” Jazz says. “Plan A: transceiver. We gonna do a public station?”

“Ye—probably.” The public relays in Decepticon control are too numerous and easily accessible to be well-guarded, and will be the best option for a successful data transmission. “This one will work,” 96%. Prowl props his datapad between himself and Jazz, and points to relay E9.

“Huh, GRKX,” Jazz says. “Bit of a walk, we ready?”

“That is GRKX?” Prowl expands the notes on relay E9, but cultural history did not qualify for his travel notes. “Apologies, unimportant. We are ready.”

“Fragging wrong! Important!” Jazz snatches the datapad and taps into the notes. “You know GRKX? I mean, I guess I woulda guessed you listen to public radio, but hah! You listen to APG enough to know the local affiliates?” (Jazz vandalizes the history of E9 with the annotation ‘nerd radio, til 92.50.2’)

“Not anymore,” Prowl points out. “The station has been inactive for a semivorn,” and inactive since before Prowl knew of it. He had listened during his transfer to this posting, a blend of recordings and lingering radio waves passing into space, stuttering ominously forward in history as Prowl approached GHX-9. “My personal interest is minor here. It will be...” Prowl hesitates, aware that he has already obscured this evaluation for too long, ethically.

“What era? You had favorite sections or hosts?” Jazz continues to add notes (listing out shows and ownership changes and tapping at them pointedly).

“Jazz,” Prowl says. He reaches over to the datapad to close the annotation and toggle on the territory control highlighting over E9. Public relays are easily traced, and are not defensible. “If you accompany me, 61% chance of death before daybreak, 89% chance of capture.”

“F’real? No way.” Jazz frowns and squints at the map. “Thought I was a better guide-scout-bodyguard than that.” He brightens and looks back up at Prowl. “Did you ever listen to the predawn detail slot? I actually put out codes on that for a bit, y’know!”

“Yes—for, I.” Prowl stares at Jazz, who is staring at him with an appearance of close attention that is at odds with his _not listening_. “With your assistance, my chances of death and capture are 8% and 93%, respectively. _Yours_ are 61% and 89%, if you accompany me, which is not...” (required, enforceable, nearly as safe as leaving, reasonable?)

“That sounds righter — I _can_ read a tac map, boo — right, right, let’s do it.” Jazz nods energetically, hops to standing, and offers Prowl a hand up. “Was that a yes on the predawn? How ‘bout Echoes? No association with that one, I just liked it.”

Is this nervous babble? Prowl takes the hand up. “I liked the predawn detail, sometimes. In 88.4, that slot often had good music for working. I only liked Echoes when Seglack hosted,” Prowl says, which is true and makes Jazz beam and bounce on his pedes. _“Jazz,_ please concentrate. I am saying that this is a major personal risk for you.”

“Mm-hm, need me, 61, 89,” Jazz says, demonstrating his ability to repeat sounds without convincingly demonstrating his comprehension. He is clutching Prowl’s hand tightly, and his expression is _delighted_. “Babe, you listen to music while you work? You like music?”

There comes a point when Prowl has to accept that Jazz’s decision is sufficiently informed. He sighs. “Music can be imperfectly defined as ‘sound that people like,’” Prowl says, defensive by old and unnecessary habit. “I am a person. I sometimes enjoy music.”

Jazz _jumps for joy_ , and also for scaling the side of the pipeway in which they had been resting. He reaches back to help pull Prowl up, grinning excessively. “What else do you enjoy?”

“Don’t get too excited,” Prowl warns (too late, 97%). “I mostly listen to news, and all my anecdotes are classified, technical, or depressing.” (Not mutually exclusive.)

Jazz shrugs, still grinning as he picks the beginning of the path to relay E9 (former home of nerd radio). “Well, we got a long boring walk, a solid chance of never getting to talk after it, and a _crucial_ need for you to tell me about yourself.”

Prowl sighs again (laughs), and follows. It is not like he does not have reciprocal curiosity.


	34. Chapter 34

::No!:: Jazz drops from the higher walkway (a shelf of old road, 13% visibility gain) to shake his head and mime laughter at Prowl. ::It don’t fraggin’ count, and I gave you time to come up with a better answer!::

Prowl steps around him. ::It is the honest and fervent answer.::

::Yeah, yeah, but—:: Jazz groans over the comm and gestures rudely at Prowl before climbing back up. (He creeps along a split in the road in a way that blends him into the terrain remarkably well.) ::‘Win the war with minimized cost’ — I knew that already, I think you’ve used those exact fraggin’ — c’mon Prowler, enough of the honest and fervent! Tell me a life goal that’s just for fun!::

::Ah, I see the issue,:: Prowl says. For all his endless plans, Prowl has not put much thought into life after the war. He suspects (`does not converge`%) it will not be an issue. Jazz has not offered his own ‘fun life goals,’ though Prowl is fairly sure (8*%) he has plenty, and is (*9%) attempting to avoid tragic juxtaposition with his still-high risk of death. ::You have forgotten that I hate fun.::

It has the intended effect, and Prowl catches the faint sound of laughter accompanying a glint of smile from Jazz. ::Right, right, that’s cool too! C’mon Prowler, I know you got opinions, and I wanna know! Something you _want_ , just for you.:: Jazz comes close enough to the edge of his walkway to point at Prowl. ::A good round-the-clock job, maybe restart your gardening? Take a trip to see the crystal caverns?::

Yes. There will always be work Prowl needs to do, and that is theoretically his chosen life, his chosen lifestyle. It sounds accurate. It sounds... quiet. It sounds worse than whatever Jazz would (9z8%) come up with. (The tragic juxtaposition is, apparently, inevitable.) 

Prowl needs to survive. He has responsibilities. (Between the two of them, Jazz _should_ be the one to _live_.)

::Yes, that.:: Prowl sets his sensor panels and keeps walking. ::You have been connected to my inner architecture and now have an obnoxiously intuitive sense of my personality. You already know everything about me.:: He wants to see Jazz pursue a fun life goal. He _wants_ Jazz to survive. ::I have little interest in personal desires,:: he says, and it is and is not true, and the words or his tone make Jazz pause and lean over the edge to look at Prowl.

::Inner archit—:: Jazz hops down again, knocking an arm against Prowl in an ostensibly balancing gesture. He laughs over comms. ::Hold up, you writing off our _connection_ as a freak hardline connection? No way, that ain’t a real thing — I cheated to learn you take pride in your work and legit don't understand smiles, but you still gotta tell me the rest, Prowler.::

::You have repeatedly attributed relationship significance to our unusual history of processor connection,:: Prowl points out, revealing more monitoring and review of Jazz’s social interactions than Prowl has previously disclosed. (Whatever.)

::Sure, for gossip! It’s the flashier and boringer story, ain’t a thing.:: Jazz walks backwards (fidgeting regularly to check surroundings) to keep Prowl (mostly) in sight, expression oddly serious. ::I know you got wants that ain’t life or death. You don’t gotta stress on an answer. You okay?::

Prowl has desires that are not life or death. (He must. 92%.) He will pin them down later. He wants Jazz to survive, and that likelihood is malleable. He meets Jazz’s steady gaze. ::I want,:: he says, ::to run a final synchronization before we attack the relay.:: 

Jazz trips on rubble (feigned, 46%) and shakes his head at Prowl. ::Ooh, you’re lucky insufferable looks so good on you, babe,:: he says, laughing. ::Yep, sure, good idea. C’mon, overlook point AL, here.:: He hops and climbs ahead to a natural rock formation that offers a view of the relay tower, a looming structure flattened to black in the evening dim, lit irregularly with the remains of safety lights. They are very near (0.4 kils) to their destination, even along the slow, hidden approach that Jazz plotted for Prowl.

They set a distraction in sector PD, and confirmed that point J4βC was clear. (Running 113% previous chance of survival.) Between Jazz’s scouting and Prowl’s oversight, they are positioned for a confident 92% clean access to relay E9 within the joor. Jazz reaches to Prowl to help him into a stable spot on the overlook.

Prowl accepts the guidance into the space, as well as the hardline connection that Jazz slips into the motion. The useful space is small, and Jazz pulls Prowl into close contact. _Can you confirm the current positioning of the guards?_ Prowl asks.

Jazz sends his copy of the working maps and plans, including minor updates of scout’s annotations. The status of the guards are initially speculative, until Jazz retrieves and inspects a device that looks suspiciously Autobot-sourced. Moderate processor engagement allows Prowl to understand how the _trace listener_ readings from the _prox sensor web_ provide the basis for Jazz’s tracking of security. _Yeah, still skeleton crew. Razorback and midweight flightframe friend — both PFCs, eavesdropped their pings — walking A-2 to M, single lightframe tech on the console._

Prowl runs his update at the same layer of engagement, so Jazz can generally follow as Prowl checks and finalizes safety and timing markers. He makes sure to note the final timings as well as the current time (Jazz’s chronometer is still off as part of his prisoner inhibitions), and he _hears_ music as Jazz aligns and starts his own version of the timeline. (He keeps a copy of the music after Jazz disconnects, to better follow along.)

The planned entrance is a nondescript wall (beyond tampered fencing and an easily-climbed security office) nearby, sheer concrete broken 24.3 mets up by the planked-over frame of an old emergency exit. This is Prowl’s entrance. Jazz points out the best area to stay (in a dip in the ground against the wall), which is also indicated in Prowl’s map. Prowl dims his lights enough to lose some sensory input, for the sake of stealth.

::’Kay.:: Jazz glances around the (dark, rough, raw rock at the back of a long abandoned remote station, risk 3%) area, checking repeatedly over Prowl. ::’Kay, stay low, stay quiet, aight?::

“Jazz,” Prowl warns, “do not _coddle_.” Prowl’s current task is to curl up in a divot and wait while Jazz goes around, breaks in at access RVB, silently disables two guards and steals their safety codes in a 6.6 klik window of time, and opens the emergency door above. (It will not be difficult.)

::Right!:: Jazz nods and steps back along the wall with an apologetic smile. ::Sorry, yep, you’ll be fine. See you in a sec!::

::In seven breems,:: Prowl clarifies as Jazz ducks and very nearly vanishes into the dark. ::Jazz,:: he manages before completely losing sight. (Jazz pauses, and Prowl loses track of him in stillness.) ::Stay alive.:: 

Prowl cannot see or hear any reaction. He wonders if he has spoken inappropriately.

At the edge of short comms range, Jazz gives a fuzzy, ::You got it, boo.::

-

Prowl stays alert, watches his chronometer, and for (fun) careful synchronization, plays the song that Jazz is using to keep time. Putting aside whether or not the playlist system is generally sensible, it is an effective workaround to a disabled chronometer. There is a marked switch in layer emphasis at the time that Jazz should be clearing the entrance zone.

The exact moment that the entrance opens (with a light rain of plaster dust released by Jazz’s controlled explosion) coincides with a strong beat in Jazz’s music, and Prowl appreciates the unusually (95th%tile) close adherence to timeline even as he notes the (70%) possibility that Jazz delayed unnecessarily to force the match. He brings his optics back up to evaluate Jazz’s expression as Jazz peeks out above and waves. (Jazz seems fine; it is dark.)

Prowl checks the area and deems it (4% exposure risk) safe enough to step back and reach up. Jazz has to plant a grapple and drop down the building before Prowl is able to clutch on.

Jazz is smaller but strangely strong, and spins Prowl to rearrange him into a carrying hold that is (undignified but) comfortable to haul him up into the station.

::Security?:: Prowl asks. Holding to Jazz as closely as he is, Prowl can smell a trace of electrical fry and energon, from (71%) physical damage inflicted at very close range, though it may (54%) predate this station.

::Patrollers downed — muted and shoved in a closet — at A7,:: Jazz says as he wedges them back in through the tiny (specced for up to small cybertronian) escape window. The inner side of the window (entry 0V) is the end of a darkened and sand-strewn hallway (C-V), one of many (10) disused access points in an oversized building. ::Tech’s still standing, he’s been lagging on his check-in. Still relaxed last I saw. We’ll check in right quick, yeah?::

Prowl follows through a series of collapsing hallways, going through holes in the structure as often (5 versus 4 times, technically) as through proper doors. He attempts to stay quiet and alert out of caution and in imitation of Jazz (who is likely stealthy out of habit) despite the fact that they are in a large building with no security system, sneaking up on a single technician who is (confirmed by Jazz’s bugs) sitting in a soundproofed room. 

::Here’s NK-O!:: Jazz says, giving Prowl’s hand a squeeze before he releases it to prod Prowl into the monitoring booth adjacent to the primary broadcast setup (Room NK-O).

Prowl avoids the window overlooking the broadcast room (Room NK) to be safe, and focuses on the camera feeds. Most are dark, but two and about a quarter screens provide views of a blue midframe balanced across an undersized (GRKX never refit to accommodate larger than small class cybertronians) work table. He has a datapad tucked under an arm and is picking at a (broken, in a way that causes it to wobble irregularly) desk drawer.

::Blue’s sending check-in all-clears to coordination on that pad by the joor. Should be about to send one, tell me when?:: Jazz sticks around exactly long enough to confirm Prowl’s comprehension, then hops into a hole in the floor and disappears without a sound.

One of the camera views allows Prowl to catch a glimpse of Jazz in NK, sliding behind a vidcaster brace. Prowl watches the technician continue interacting with (attempting to fix, 96%) the drawer and projects Jazz’s movement through the scattered cover of the room. After 26 kliks, the datapad beeps loudly enough to register weakly through the run-down sound connection to NK-O.

The technician drops the drawer and his datapad, and catches the datapad. He hops to his pedes for long enough to look over the equipment in the room and adjust the settings at the main console, then taps at his datapad until the beeping stops. ::Sent,:: Prowl tells Jazz.

Jazz pings a copy-that back, as if there is any other way to interpret Jazz springing out from underneath and behind (not, actually, where Prowl thought he was) a burnt-out server and tackling the technician to the ground.

The Decepticon makes a startled noise that transitions through a burst of crackling noises (comm lines tearing), then a shriek of pain, which dissolves into static and, finally, drops into mute as Jazz pulses enough EMP to force him into shutdown (dead, 5%).

His target is unconscious before Jazz has resolved the momentum of his attack, and Jazz dips without breaking flow to deposit the technician in a back corner, and bounces to trot towards Prowl in NK-O. The door unlocks to a remote ping while Jazz is still on his way, and opens to Jazz sweeping a check over Prowl and gesturing him in with a grin and a flourish. “Got a joor, more if we’re lucky! Need me to set anything?”

“Yes,” Prowl says, pulling his working orders out of subspace and beginning an investigatory circuit of the room. There should be waiting inbounds, in need of collection and decryption. He tosses a dataslug to Jazz. “I count three functional readers, please confirm that and begin collecting according to the order on this slug.”

Jazz catches the slug and is already nodding and heading for a reader as he notches the slug in. “Four if you count the ZD-3 — it’d be slow, but we could run it in parallel for series F,” he says.

Prowl is willing to count the ZD-3 and collect in parallel. They have plenty (5.5:37) of time for collection and analyses (in theory), certainly enough time for Prowl to be thorough in his work once Jazz begins passing him collected and decrypted inbounds. (Countdown to capture only begins once Prowl opens the outbound signals.)

He has plenty of time. Stations FKξ9, CQR, and BY8C report the most complex needs, and stations FKξ9 and CQR are well-rated and can be given likely-successful (94%, 86%) survival and reconnection plans. (BY8C faces a 20%-casualty evacuation as best scenario, which Prowl duly outlines.) The territory shifts were beginning to drift into hectic but are easily redirected (current situation better than median projection scenario) and with Prowl integrating and realigning teams at FNλ and in Sector 7, he anticipates stable lines along OY-P and 9-K, maneuverable into Autobot control given (among options) a well-planned raid on the windplant. 

The battlefield as a whole will (88%) settle back into steadier and more organized territorial wrestling, once the current rapid scrabbling plays out. Once Prowl sends the dispatch, and (82%/96%, dep. Jazz) is captured.

“You dislike being a prisoner,” Prowl says, placing his code card onto the pile (ready to send) and looking over to Jazz, “and if you leave now, you will decrease your likelihood of capture by 56%, much more than the 17% you will increase mine. Additionally, given capture my likelihood of execution is about 20% of yours.” (Prowl is a live capture priority.)

Jazz flicks plating without looking up from his work (investigating a transmitter). “The second I leave, you’re gonna have a weird technical issue with this old gear,” he claims. (Unlikely, 12%) “I can ditch ya whenever.” (True, within reasonable definition.) Jazz looks up, flashes a smile. “Ready to upload?”

Prowl reorders his pile of media, for emotional grounding rather than increased neatness. “Yes,” he says, and tunes the primary console to the first destination (Optimus, New Horizon, which requires a series of commands, team locations and personnel lists for contact, an immediate strategic overview, and a read-at-pace detail report marked with assumed approval and brief windows for emergency modifications).

He starts the connection.

The whole room flares with sounds ( _“Transmission live!”_ ) and displays (two wall screens and a main holo and a mini holo) and flickering lights of a _non-standard_ (local news broadcast, presumably) preset configuration that casts Optimus’s image in the middle of the room in huge life-size, flashing in uncomfortable brightness that strains both Prowl’s senses and the inadequately maintained projectors.

“Prowl, this is Optimus, receiv—receiving and ready at 12:777,” Optimus says, voice distorted by overburdened audio equipment, stuttering around the point when Prowl emits a stressed shout of feedback and Jazz yells a few choice exclamations in a language Prowl does not know (dialect Polyhex, 71%).

“Off off off!” Jazz calls, redundantly. Prowl is already attacking the inconveniently small and unfamiliar transmission controls.

“Please hold a moment,” Prowl says to Optimus as he rips out what seems to be the connection between the small terminal actually passing information and the loud and unnecessary in-room comm repeater. Jazz crashes over a cabinet to toggle several controls on an innocuous panel against the wall.

The room returns in steps of silenced equipment to a merciful dark and quiet, Optimus’s voice dropping to the intended normal internal volume in Prowl’s linked comms. Prowl schools the embarrassment out of his expression and checks whether Jazz has adjusted the general controls to satisfaction.

Jazz is standing very still and looking across the room. 

Prowl follows his gaze to, to the _technician_. The technician is laying in the corner he was left in, looking as he was — no. There is a faint tremor to his plating.

Jazz shoves along a wall and jumps to crouch by the technician, who (on physical contact with Jazz) gives up his act and reanimates to scramble clumsily away with a shout. He is stopped by the corner, and by Jazz dropping his weight to pin him down. ::Signal, babe,:: Jazz says.

Prowl returns his attention to the signal, to the long and complicated list of orders he needs to give and the brief conversations he needs to have. ::Optimus,:: he says, switching to manual input to avoid competition with the sounds of struggle in the room.

“I didn’t see! It was a fragging mess, couldn’t even tell who that wa— I didn’t see anything!” the technician shrieks, sound warping as he fights against Jazz. (Prowl works through his dispatch. Optimus and the rest of the team in the room accept and initiate his orders with some modification that will require updates to plans FP, U, and AL.)

“Uh huh,” Jazz croons, “I know, I know, that’s the way everyone wants it, so we’re gonna make it so, nice and easy, ‘kay? Mnemo tech 2nd class here, gonna be clean and comfy and pass review.” He wrestles the technician under control and does something (pries his ports and initiates a hacker’s hardline, 92%) that causes more screaming. (Prowl finishes the dispatch to New Horizon and makes the necessary edits to the full order.)

“No, no, _no,”_ the technician babbles, clattering metal filling in any gaps between shouts. “Get out, stop, stop get out — _kill me instead_ , no!” (Only one working outbound line, but this has little impact on speed, which is primarily restricted by Prowl’s ability to feed out information in sequence. Station CQR repositioning confirmed.)

“That is the other option, baby,” Jazz tells the Decepticon. “Don’t be a wimp, ain’t touchin’ any of that, just here for—” The technician’s cries gain in volume and drown out any more words from Jazz. (A string of straightforward transmissions to smaller contacts, simply sharing safe locations around Sector 7.)

“Get out get out, _please_ , what was tha— _no, no, stop, stop_ —” the technician dissolves into incoherence and shrill keening, reaching enough pitch and volume at a moment between tasks for Prowl to glance over. ( _Containment_ risk, Prowl realizes, may easily encourage some phobias.)

Jazz has the technician grappled in a configuration that happens to let him meet Prowl’s optics, grimace, and shrug. _“Stop st—”_ The screaming cuts out abruptly, though the technician continues to struggle, and in fact struggles more intensely. (Vocal controls interrupted.)

Metallic sounds continue from the corner, but it is much quieter overall and Prowl is able to restore his attention to his work and the dispatches he needs to send.

He makes steady progress. The crashing sounds eventually peak and fade and Prowl looks over again. 

“Done, perfect, good mech,” Jazz tells the technician as he slumps into some kind of unconsciousness. “You’re gonna wake up, bug-free, won’t even remember this, gonna be fine.”

“Is that secure?” Prowl asks, distracted and attempting to hide it by seeking a normal work cadence. (Three contacts remaining, at least two reconfigurations between.)

Jazz jerks a shrug as he puts the technician down, remaining connected and tapping absently at the hardline. “83%,” he says flatly, making tac net latch on in an attempt to check.

Prowl cringes with the effort of redirecting tac net to usable input, takes the brush-off and refocuses. (Team B49 next, at the location they gave, in need of passwords to regroup.)

Jazz stays connected to the unconscious technician for another breem, and after disconnect sits, retrieves some salvage from under his plating, and (presumably) sorts his own data while Prowl finishes the dispatch to B49 and begins the one to contact id Y44. (Station FKξ9 is next, is last; there is not much time required and they should minimize time spent.)

“What am I doing?” Jazz asks, appearing at Prowl’s side. 

“Retuning that line to F-K-xi-9,” Prowl says, pointing at a console.

There is an atypical pause before Jazz says, “Yep,” and starts on the line. 

Prowl sets his orders to send and looks up while he waits for confirmation. “More broadly,” he says. “Saving lives. Mind the drip from your side.” (FKξ9, destroy any data traces, flee.)

The poorly-patched incision from the removal of Jazz’s tracker has re-opened, begun to well over, and risks dripping onto delicate electronics. Jazz nods and catches the energon one-handed, continuing to tune the line.

Delayed by technical difficulty, but still well within (9.0 breems under) allotted time, everything is sent and set (Autobots will maintain navigable positioning around Cattax, 94%). 

Prowl destroys the last of the externally traceable records with a feeling of lightheaded triumph, and looks to Jazz to confirm that he has not forgotten anything. Jazz smiles in return, and a sense of contrast in the gesture makes it abruptly clear in hindsight how quiet and serious he has otherwise gone. 

Prowl frowns. “Is something wrong?”

Jazz shrugs. “We’re in enemy territory and they’re coming for us?” (Expected time to capture: 30 breems.) He starts for the door, calling over his shoulder, “C’mon, let’s get running!”

They get running, and driving. Driving is faster, and the initial means of gaining immediate distance from their recently broadcast location. Jazz’s evasive pathways require substantial amounts of running in root mode. Running is also a much safer way to navigate over minefields and between hunter teams in the dark of night. Prowl appreciates both aspects as they reach farther (9.1 kils) than the more pessimistic likely scenarios.

Jazz is quiet, which is at first the only sensible way to flee a dedicated tracking force. After they cross SM-07, it remains sensible, but also becomes uncharacteristic. 

Pressed back to a wall and waiting while Jazz climbs to orienteer, Prowl has a sufficient angle to attempt to make out Jazz’s expression, and finds it ambiguous — intent? Afraid? (Crossing SM-07 gives them better chances of escape, adding 57 breems to expected time to capture.)

Jazz drops silently to rejoin Prowl and catches his hand to direct him through a tunneled passageway. He is a skilled fugitive, but he can be captured. (He has been captured; he is terrified of being captured.)

It is not difficult to remember the pervasive, sickening fear in Jazz, from fairly recent memory. From Jazz, captured, insecure and ferociously aware of it. He is well-informed of unpleasant possibilities, full of (first-hand, second-hand, stolen, constructed, all) memories of suffering in captivity, fed into a reckless and paranoid personal core.

Prowl waits until they are through the tunnel and creeping through an old battlefield, with some (7 mets) distance left between them for maneuverability on unstable ground. ::They are unlikely to kill me before I am released in either ransom (13%) or extraction (78%),:: Prowl offers, lagging behind Jazz’s lead. (Jazz should leave.)

There is a delay as Jazz either processes (53%) or tries to communicate with body language that Prowl cannot make out in the dark (64%). ::Even less likely if we get ya into Zfal— sector D1,:: he says matching his usual flippant tone almost perfectly. ::Only question’s whether we take down the bridge at Q0A after we go by. Kinda loud, but, strategically, hm...::

It would disable access through Q0A, at cost of time and potential attention, against the gain of a cleaner front at AU1. ::Not worthwhile,:: Prowl deems. ::I am only heading there because it is so tactically minor that security is not embedded.:: It is, in fact, rather obvious. (Distraction, 90%) ::What is your actual concern?::

Jazz pauses and turns to face Prowl, a faint stealth-dim haze of blue in a dark silhouette. ::Hah,:: he says. ::Nothing. Don’t stop walking, Prowler.::

Prowl hastens into a jog to catch up, to gain ground into Jazz’s space. ::Lying.:: He will not pry, but he also will not leave it unmentioned.

::I ain’t—:: Closer, Jazz’s misshapen smile and huffed laugh is much easier to make out. ::It’s—:: He checks the area around them (a broken lane through broken buildings; unusually low wind, good cover) in a shrug. “What am I doing, Prowl?” he asks.

He is assisting. He has been assisting, and Prowl suspects that he has also, due to circumstances and conversation, been reflecting on the motivations and impacts of his actions. “Saving lives,” Prowl says again, attempting to make it softer this time. He has — the largest impact of Jazz’s actions in the past seven joor has been improved Autobot territory capture and retention. (Less concretely defensive than Jazz’s previously demonstrated designs.)

“Saving my life,” Prowl says, since Jazz has seemed unconflicted about that goal. It sounds manipulative as soon as he says it, and Prowl shakes his head, tries not to trip with the effort of keeping pace with Jazz while suddenly uncomfortable. “An overstatement. I will” 92% “survive.” He has said this. “I have attempted to be open about the overarching motiva—”

“No, no, yeah,” Jazz cuts in (meaning _what?_ ), slowing down enough to prevent their pace from becoming incompatible with surrounding-aware conversation. “I’m with you, here,” he says, switching suddenly from avoiding looking at Prowl to staring at Prowl. “You said this is the right thing to do, and I believe you. I believe you believe that, and you’re smart, and from everything I can see here, this was good, this is good.”

It is easier to maintain solid footing at this pace, and Prowl follows closely to be able to hear Jazz.

“I trust you.” (It is barely audible, even close and tuned high.) “And this makes sense, right here, right now — but it always does, okay?” Jazz shrugs and uses the motion to look away again. “It always makes sense in the local —” He gestures mock-excitement. “Bust out the Bot to save the ship, grab the fragging mini before he bleeds out, follow a leak, yes, fine, great!” He shrugs again, tossing some piece of debris he was holding. “But a few years of great ideas—” Jazz breaks off with a sound that is probably meant to be a laugh.

Prowl does not understand, and he does not know what to say. (He should tell Jazz to leave, but he suspects that in the current context doing so will be taken as emotionally dismissive rather than purely literal.)

“But, there’s a whole _machine_ — and trusting the bigger machine happening around us—” Jazz spins on a step to face Prowl, and he is smiling (lying) until their optics meet. Then he slumps. “But everything’s a mess.”

Ah. Everything is... complicated and often difficult to face (a mess). “You are grappling with uncertainty and regret,” Prowl assesses, trying to convey hesitance with his tone. He waits until Jazz resumes optic contact. “And you should leave me here and run because otherwise, 93% we will _both_ be caught, _unnecessarily_ ,” he says much more firmly.

A slow, uneven, smile twitches across Jazz’s face. “Oh. Nah.” He straightens and waves, briefly near normal. “No — I mean, sure, grappling, hello old friend, but—” He skips a pace ahead so that he can plant his stance and point at Prowl in a show of stubborness. “Not a regret, this, and runnin’ and hidin’s more fun with good company.” 

Jazz nods and flashes a fond smile at Prowl (emphasizing sincerity, r*%) before melting back into walking and stooping under unhappiness a half met beside and in front of Prowl. “I just...” He sighs, stretches and looks upwards, then turns to look at Prowl like he has spotted the words he was looking for. “What’s my Garrus reprimand?” he asks.

Prowl spends a moment thinking out similar sound sets, in case he misheard.

“Garrus-3, and the whole riot and razing thing,” Jazz says, clarifying at least what he is saying, if not why. “You said I had a reprimand for it. What’s that about?”

Prowl appreciates that a direct question is a relatively clear conversational prompt. He considers. That is a somewhat unusual administrative situation that no one has had time to resolve. “Given that you were not in fact in the IA chain of responsibility at the time, that will be cleared,” he says.

Jazz groans a one-breath laugh, and it sounds pained. “Don’t care, Prowler,” he says, wrapping his arms around himself to (press the patch on his incision wound back in place) fidget absently. “What is it?”

Belatedly, Prowl catches the thematic link to Jazz’s current distress. He tries and fails to find a comfortable response. “Preventable death and excess destruction from neglect of proper procedure,” he says. Not Prowl’s judgement, but at least at harsh as Prowl would have advocated. “You should have waited for a response.”

Though, technically, “Though, technically,” Prowl notes, “the assessment was qualified by your inability to submit a personal statement, and may be reviewed given additional information.”

“Pft.” Jazz rolls his optics, directed away from Prowl but visible in his swaying motion. “Frag the review, say it now — I killed people there.”

“You killed people there,” Prowl agrees. (50, by the on-file analysis.)

Jazz nods. “I killed a fresh guard,” he says, glancing over his shoulder to make brief conversational contact with Prowl. “Risend. Nice kid, two weeks old, liked me because I told him dirty jokes about his slagaft supervisor.” Jazz nods more, in amusing memory or stressed tic. “Naive.”

(That matches the reconstruction of the inciting events, yes.)

“Killed him just for a prison break, just ‘cause I had places to be. Or, thought I did—” Jazz chuckles and shrugs. “Turned out I didn’t really need to be those places — ship I was meant to meet got intercepted in a random sweep, but _coulda_ been important.”

(That does not match.) Prowl frowns. “I thought that your driving motivation was the widespread abuse present at Garrus-3.” (He still thinks so. 91%.)

“Sure, yeah, for leaving all the sabotage and instructions and explosives on my way out.” Jazz waves acknowledgement. “Hadda make sure ‘handy distraction’ would tip into full on ‘uprising’ — bodycount 361 overall — even if I weren’t gonna stick around to fuss the details. Was me, wasn’t me, good slag, bad slag, who knows.”

(Back in alignment with the record, incomplete as it is.)

Jazz tilts his head thoughtfully. “How much should I count that slagaft supervisor in my kills?” He tilts farther, enough to look back at Prowl, grin wide and unhappy. “Sources say he went down screaming.”

“Zero to 12 percent,” Prowl says. (He cannot speak to the screaming.)

Jazz falters. The edge of constant flow and shift in his demeanor stops, he wobbles in brief overbalance, and his expression fixes. “What?”

Prowl nods. “Most actuarial algorithms of that nature do not, for practical reasons as much as for philosophical ones, allow for causal chaining of as many degrees as I understand exist between you and most individual deaths in Garrus-3, and those will set you to zero,” he explains. “However, by the nature of your question I assume you are disqualifying those. Without knowing the particulars of the situation, I expect that more aggressive models — mind the summing past one — would land you closer to 12% accountability for the death of the slagaft supervisor.” 

(Prowl has intended to re-read the detail backup of the Garrus-3 write-up since developing a closer association with Jazz, but he has not and cannot offer more specific information.)

Jazz slows, mostly-backwards steps stumbling to a stop. His grin fades, into something that is more typically coupled with this subject. “Are you for real right now?” he asks. His voice is very cold, and he is blocking the way.

The imposed stop interrupts Prowl’s gait, and he slips slightly. Jazz is staring (glaring) at him in a way that may have contributed to his imbalance. Prowl’s plating wavers before he catches it, and he forcibly quashes the reflex to draw it in. He is right. “I empathize,” he says, “and am attempting to demonstrate it.” 

Prowl holds his frame and his voice steady. “I understand — if you will allow the presumption — I understand the pain and guilt of making decisions on the lives of others,” he says, taking in Jazz’s utter stillness and refusing to react. “I personally find consistent quantification crucial to assessing the ethics of my behavior.” 

Jazz continues to stare, unreadable. After 2.5 seconds, he loosens (readjusts to be again ready for motion) and takes a step towards (close enough to touch) Prowl.

Prowl stands his ground. “If you refuse to represent people with numbers,” he says, speaking more from stress than clear motive, “you will risk forgetting that numbers represent people.”

Jazz takes another step, and there is nowhere for him to fit, no space between him and Prowl, but Jazz is moving too slowly and deliberately to register as threatening even as he reaches and grabs onto and around Prowl. He holds and grasps tightly until Prowl reflexively clutches back. (A hug.)

Any disorientation at the delayed recognition is overwhelmed by inscrutably soothing steadiness, pressure, and _closeness_. (Jazz is warm.)

“Yeah,” Jazz says, softly, over Prowl’s shoulder. “Ain’t easy.”

-

Despite a more coherent explanation of Prowl’s reasoning once they are less emotionally strained, Jazz refuses to leave, and they make it another 5.9 kils, entering sector D2. (Reaching the 9% accessibility range.)

They are still quieter than Jazz’s normal bearing. This is sane, comfortable, and suitable for fugitives still in hostile territory.

Prowl plots and re-plots maps, evaluating topography he did not expect (91%) to reach and trusting Jazz to select and scout precise courses, recalculated in periodic hardlined updates.

He offers his wrist as Jazz nudges him into a corner of some freestanding walls, ready to share his most recent thoughts on path X2P. 

Jazz takes Prowl’s wrist(s, he swipes to gather both) in his hands, and smiles brightly at him. ::Odds on me taking down five hunters, grouped and roving?:: he asks.

::Decent if you take them by surprise,:: Prowl says while tac net works through simulations. (Jazz has so far out-achieved almost every model, and will have unusually good odds.) ::5:1:: Which is syntactically confusing, so Prowl frowns. ::85%::

::Yeah,:: Jazz says. ::About that ‘if.’ What about if they ain’t so surprised anymore?::

Prowl jerks in alarm, pulling his hands free of Jazz so that he can survey the area. He does not see a hunter team aware of their position and closing in. (Because he is ducked into a corner and hunter teams are proficient at stealth, 96%.) ::7%,:: Prowl gives Jazz.

::Huh,:: Jazz says with a (pleasantly surprised) thoughtful look that suggests 7% is better than he had expected, and that he is an idiot. He looks over his shoulder. ::Shou—::(ld I try it? I don’t process probability in any consistent way! 9*%, _idiot_.)

:: _No_ ,:: Prowl says, beginning to hear pedefall over the ever-present wind noise.

::Yeah,:: Jazz says, shrugging, nodding, stepping out and putting his hands up. He tilts his head. ::Least Mirage is here.::

Prowl cycles air methodically in an attempt to stay calm. He steps from the wall and spreads his hands in mimicry of Jazz, searching the hazy alleys and buildings for mechs.

“So,” Jazz calls, “I know y’all got a capture order, and I bet y’all don’t need some fighty captives first thing in the morning.” He fakes a tripping stumble to the left, without losing his posture of surrender.

The stonework at Jazz’s right explodes with a crack of high caliber fire, puffing a small cloud of dust and leaving a mark that clearly indicates the shooter’s position, which is 9.2 mets away and decreasing as a large medframe (Decepticon, hunter, Treadshot? 47%) approaches with weapons armed and pointed at them.

“Frag, mech, that easy?” the Decepticon asks. “Kinda... kinda spoils it, a little.”

Jazz shrugs. “Just lookin’ out.” (He mostly does an excellent job of burying his fear, but his balance is too tense.) “Vis’ll fraggin’ flay you if you kill us,” he says, keeping carefully non-threatening and looking around slowly. “Tell ‘em, Raj.”

Prowl follows the direction of Jazz’s address, which is almost 17 degrees off from where Mirage actually decloaks.

Mirage looks quickly over everyone, and then at no one at all. “That is indeed the s-situation.” He sighs, making a show of it. “Give us your weapons and behave,” he commands towards Jazz and Prowl, before resuming his study of the surrounding rubble. “Disarm, disable, contain.”

Three (one hiding, at 8/94 degrees? 44%; unimportant) more Decepticons come in from the rubble, and Prowl drops to his knees just before a dull yellow heavyframe knocks them out from under him. The heavyframe makes a small engine noise but does not otherwise pause before cuffing Prowl and starting to rummage at his comm, subspace, and weapons systems.

Prowl shifts in his limited range as he is shoved to the ground, trying to check on Jazz’s handling. (Do they know who he is? {h(x’)|Mir}; What will they do?)

Jazz is also pinned, also having (already disabled) systems severed. Jazz catches his gaze and flickers his visor in a wink. ::Well, frag,:: he says. ::Love ya babe, ‘kay? No regrkksh _frag—_ ::

Unable to find a severable connection on Jazz’s subspace driver (they are all already cut), the Decepticon processing him crumples the entire part with a shrug, drawing a hiss of pain from Jazz.

Jazz recovers comms composure in a moment. ::No regrets,:: he says, just barely before Prowl’s comms are cut through.


	35. Chapter 35

Captured, clipped, and kinda beat-up again, and Jazz can’t even be mad about it, ‘cause he kinda chose this.

Prowl fraggin’ well _warned_ him. Jazz wonders if Prowl’s the ‘I told you so’ type — didn’t get a whole lot of chance for that as they got split up and hauled back separate, but Jazz likes to think that once the frightened concern had gotten old, Prowl woulda started on ‘I told you so.’

He wonders about his risk of execution — Prowl gave it 61%-ish yesterday, but that was yesterday, before they got sights on the hunter team, and before Prowl frantically claimed Jazz as ‘TacOps field attache, aide’ — marking him as decently worthwhile at least for interrogation, maybe for ransom. Prowl’s updated number’s probably different, and it’s not like Prowl knows everything, anyway. Mirage probably has a good guess.

Mirage hasn’t shared any info, ‘course — hasn’t said anything at all, just been lurking like a shy admirer. He’s not even invisible, he’s just... standing there, looking shifty and doing nothing, a pace or two outside the grating of Jazz’s hydraulic-lock-turned-prison-cell.

After a few minutes failing to gather enough debris, Jazz gives up on stoppering the crack that’s dripping water onto him and instead just picks the driest place to lean. He’s in a rounded cermet pit, barely mech-sized, capped with a heavy adjustable grating once used for sluicing water, now makes for a passable hole to throw a prisoner in for later. Dangerously damp, and no way to settle comfortably, but — Jazz hums as he leans — nice acoustics.

Jazz shifts against the curved wall until he’s got his plating under control, and hums — Miner’s Battlemarch, long as he’s in the territory for it — until he’s sure his voice is gonna be steady.

“Mirage,” he calls. “I know some slag has gone down since, but I’m — if you ask nice —” Little bit of clutching at a wall — the rough edges of his clipped claws are good climbing grip if he ignores the pain — and Jazz doesn’t fall over as he faces the mech skulking outside and gives him a mock-serious look. “I’m still willing to take song requests.”

Mirage blinks at him, adorably nonplussed for a moment before he goes back to miserable, with a streak of annoyed. “Do you ever take anything seriously?” he asks — short memory on a mech who maybe three joors ago watched Jazz stay _seriously_ compliant through all of prisoner intake.

“Eh.” Jazz shrugs, and picks up his song at the second stanza. “It’s complicated,” he says between phrases. “You want something else from me?” Mirage also kept to the near-lies that Jazz was Prowl’s aide, and that Visrax gave a scrap about him — Jazz isn’t sure whether or not he’s got a bigger play in mind. “Whatcha doing down here?”

Mirage twitches, a little hacked-clumsy. “I am doing — I am here to...” he says, tone going all over the place and trailing into a pause that sounds like it kinda hurts. “Gloat,” he finishes, recovering a little as he finds a framing that doesn’t chafe too hard against the cerebro-shell.

“Yep.” Jazz nods encouragement, watching Mirage breathe through the press of compliance coding. “Reasonable, very Con, yep,” he says, to help.

“Y-yes.” Mirage sighs and gets himself back into passable calm. “Perhaps I’ll make a better Decepticon than I did an Autobot,” he says, looking at the mess of pipes forming the far wall. His optics flicker like he’s idly distracted or fighting a desperate internal war for control of his own mind. “Though I suppose that the entire timeline of precise factional classification becomes ambiguous in the case of a double agent.”

Wait, what? Jazz frowns while he translates that out of ‘stressed abstruse’ and comes up confused. “Double agent?” Jazz asks. Sure, anyone can sympathize wherever, but what’d Prowl say — _Were he disloyal for the requisite time to be responsible for the mission leak, we would, 92%, already be dead_. Plus, who the frag would shell an agent?

Mirage’s plating huddles down more tightly. “I, I never integrated well,” he says, light like he doesn’t care as much as he does. “I suppose it won’t be much of a surprise to many that it didn’t take much to turn me entirely into a Decepticon.”

“What the frag you on about?” Jazz shoves into the center of his pit and stretches up, ignoring the drip of hard water through his dorsal seams so that he can squint up at Mirage. “Hold up, hold up,” Jazz says. “Mirage, are you a Con?”

Mirage looks over, plating rising a little in confusion. “I...” he says, arms uncrossing as he glances around the dim windplant corridor, at the Con field equipment stacked at the walls, at the makeshift security booth he’s stood at, at the 20 met purple brand someone painted over a wall. “It seems I am one now.”

“The Pit you are — straight me out here, didn’t you get hit by Bombshell ‘bout yesterday?” Jazz demands, grabbing through a bar to point at Mirage.

“A while longer than that,” Mirage says, turning to Jazz and losing most of his resigned demeanor to confusion — for a moment, then it comes back. “He’s...” Mirage crosses his arms again, shrinks again.

Oh — “Frag, oh — frag,” Jazz says. “Oh baby, slag, you don’t know!” 

Mirage looks up — tense and unhappy, optics sickly-bright, plating bristled to very tiny, intensely defensive angles.

“No, no, sorry, that ain’t judgement, you got no way to know! You’re _not_ —” Jazz shakes his head, talking fast as he realizes. “Look, Raj, I’ve worked with Bombshell for vorns. His cerebro-shells are buggy as frag,” he says, quick-retracting his visor to show his red optics — optic — and get more earnestness pointed at Mirage. “You’re completely fragging contaminated right now, yeah, but you’re still _you_ in there, and it’s all medically reversible — any good doctor, some really good mnemo techs can help you, no big, ‘kay?”

Mirage stares at him, and it’s _obvious_ he didn’t _know_ , he’s still tense — scared, too, now, on the edge of hope, at the edge of a worse nightmare than Jazz had clocked at first. 

“You’re a liar,” Mirage says, quiet.

Jazz nods once. “I am.” He shakes his head, without looking away from Mirage. “But not right now.”

“M-my core directives are overwritten,” Mirage insists, hands clutching at plating and leaving scratches in the color — he’s staring right back at Jazz, talking nonsense, desperate.

“Ain’t how brains work. That’s the shell lying to you,” Jazz simplifies, maintaining optic contact. He grabs another bar, to pull himself up and closer. “Raj. After the safehouse, you knew where the second retreat point was.” He _ran_ the fragging depot mission, Mirage _could_ have killed everyone.

“No,” Mirage says, stiffening and looking away. “I didn’t as—didn’t thinkk to ask. Th-there was no tactical need,” he croaks — and flinches, because — _tactically_ — if Mirage had given up the second station, Jazz and Prowl wouldn’t have been able to free the depot, wouldn’t have been able to steal an Autobot advantage. Mirage shakes his head. “All injured, waiting for r-rescue that wasn’t coming, I d-didn’t need to—whatever else I’ve—”

“Hound,” Jazz says, loud enough to cut off Mirage’s struggle, to get Mirage’s sudden startled attention. Jazz grins. “Whatever else, you saved Hound. You and Hound a thing? A maybe pre-thing?” he asks — accurate enough to get a flustered flare from Mirage. Jazz winks at him. “Good taste, baby.”

Mirage — still clutching at his own plating — stares at Jazz for a long moment, and takes a few shuddering breaths. 

Jazz finds a serious expression. “It feels like you can fight it, ‘cause you can. But it ain’t gonna be easy, and it ain’t gonna be sure. Just hang on, hold tight, we’re gonna get you through.”

The tension in Mirage’s posture ratchets higher at the pain of cerebro-coding rearing up in protest, or hope — his gaze is fixed rigidly ahead, and Jazz can hear metal warping at the force of his own grip.

“Later though.” Jazz grins again, then turns it to an overdone scowl. “Right now, you’re a fragging Con agent who just accomplished a flashy high-profile capture.”

Mirage is still tense and fighting something hard inside, doesn’t move for a full strained vent cycle. 

Then he nods — choppy at first, easier as he gets his whole carriage back together. “Yes,” he says, with barely a trace of glitch. He takes another vent — picture perfect bored aristocrat — and glances over Jazz on the way to looking down and studying his own hands. “I — we have you now, Autobot scum, and you can expect full h-hospitality.”

Smoothing disdainfully at scraped paint like he’s just noticing it, Raj does an _excellent_ ‘monologuing captor.’ “You cannot escape the sluice cells — they are completely isolated from the functional grid, and require secondary validation at the control center,” Mirage says, gesturing dramatically and informatively over security controls. 

“It is past time for me to check in, so I will be going. In under a joor, you will be collected by a security pair, who will be prepared to rush you through the un-nmonitored f-flooded section as they escort you to interrogation in the west grid corridor offices, and you will be pr-p-prevented from making any c-contact with the low-value prisonersss secured at the, the west wall underpass, n-nevermind aksh-access to the higher-security prisonnnn holding in, in, in the north q-quarter of the centrtrral administr-str—admin building.” He’s gargling static by the end with how far he’s stretching the compliance coding, but Mirage gets it out.

Jazz focuses on how _impossible_ bypassing that lock system actually is to keep his body language all apprehensive. He grins — Jazz can do a slaggin’ _ambiguous_ grin — when Mirage looks over. “Frag,” he says. “I’ll get you for this, Raj.”

Mirage smiles back — he gets it arrogant enough, but it’s several notes too sincere to be perfect — before he vanishes.

-

Yeah, Jazz can’t escape the fraggin’ sluice cell — completely isolated from the functional grid, needs secondary validation. He presses himself against the driest wall, sorts himself calm until Bolt and Grazescale show up and haul him out. He goes with them politely, stays compliant, and manages to duck any real issues until they’re splashing hurriedly through a flooded section of low hallway.

In a flooded section of low hallway, he gets Bolt with a jury-rigged sonic blast, then gets Grazescale’s comms with Bolt’s blaster, and then they wrestle clumsily in shin-deep water for a stupidly long and loud fight before Jazz gets Grazescale down with EMP and sprints for passages taking him down and west — low-value prisoners secured at the west wall, right?

There’s no alert while he finds the prison block — former basement, looks like — so either Jazz still has time before security gets going, or he can’t hear camp comms — he tuned to the frequency on the way, just in case his aux comms can get him some kinda heads up.

The guards are surprised, at least — even if they got an alert, mech outta the vents is pretty surprising — and Jazz gets them down fine — pops the weld on his left arm, though, which fragging hurts and makes him too clumsy to be efficient getting the cells — line of closets, stack of cages — open.

No one in the first cell is strong or alive enough to help — a goraaxian watching him from a closet-cell two over gets the idea, chatters to be let out, and bounds over to dig around the guard station as soon as Jazz busts the closet window open enough for her to climb through. 

“You got it from here?” Jazz asks, eyeing the maze of basement cages and closets, all treacherously slippery and unmapped. 

“What?” The goraaxian gets arms around a key wallet and halfway towards a dark corner where people are begging for rescue. “Where are you going?”

“Sorry, ain’t a real rescue mission.” Jazz is going back the way he came — his windplant maps are fragging _sketches_ — to check if that service hall a ways back will lead to central admin — to Prowl. He spots a roll of heavy tape and pauses to get his left arm more connected to itself. “Can’t help ya farther, gotta go back for someone else before they know I’m here. Y’all good to dash for it?”

“No,” the goraaxian says, turning over her shoulder from where she’s working at a lock, “but I guess Skasnim should know how to get—”

That’ll have to be good enough — Jazz is already gone, racing against no time, no plan, towards higher security, using general purpose sneak tricks and searching the tunnels on the way towards admin for inspiration. There’s a lot to sabotage in a windplant, and he might be able to —

He’s two corridors over, under a breem and maybe a quarter frelling kil of lead from last trace, when his comms shriek a harsh emergency channel pre-note, then an ::Update on code 231, fugitive confirmed in area K.:: 

Jazz is instantly skittered into a side closet, before he can process — one, Ratchet _fixed_ his aux comms — new, fresh parts in place of the broken slag he’d had, it just _works_. Two, they’re fragging quick here — it’s two breems tops after his expected arrival in interrogation, how the _pit_ did they already— 

::Target last spotted in K7-0, heading east. Repeat, area K, unarmed, live capture, Praxian with Enforcer training.::

Two point five, that ain’t him — that’s Prowl. Hah, no one is ever where they’re meant to be.

Jazz mutes a laugh. Prowl’s loose! What the frag, Prowler? Is he getting out? Fragger might make it — he’s skilled and he’s smart — wouldn’t risk getting shot in a breakout unless he thought he could make it. Or — unless, he wanted to make himself more of a hassle, to increase the value of any remaining Bot captives who might have similar intel — unless he’s doing something dumb for Jazz.

Three, that’s — _frag_ — that’s not a first call, that’s an update on a high-alert search, and — three point five? — Jazz is hiding in a closet off a main corridor, and he doesn’t know slag about the windplant, he’s using on the fly hiding spot judgement and high-tuned senses, and — fragging _four_ — he’s hiding in a dead-end storage closet off a main hallway and they’re _searching_ this hall.

They’re coming — he can hear a security team — jangle that identifies Scift, engines and pedefall that mark five more — clearing his hallway and they’re gonna find him and he is _not_ a Praxian with a live capture command. Fraggin’ fits, looking at his life — lotta stupid slag, lotta questionable picks between questionable options piling into — something.

Jazz is in a corner in a dead end closet and he’s got no fragging options other than ‘get shot by a surprised guard who isn’t even looking for him,’ because he ran _in_ instead of _away_ trying to help someone who didn’t, doesn’t need his fragging help. 

Visrax is a terrible person, but he wouldn’ta _killed_ Prowl — Jazz—Meister ran logistics with Vis on JFY-5, and knows he’s not dumb. And, knows—

Frag. Jazz has no options here, but — he mutes his groan, but lets himself do it silently, ‘cause it feels like it goes with the paint and kibble adjustments, a personal complaint while he switches to comms. ::Yo Vis,:: he says, ::you still use this channel?::

There’s a pause before the answer, and the security team finishes checking the room two down. ::Who is this and how did you get this code?:: Visrax says.

Meister scoffs. ::Ain’t no one getting my comm creds, and you fragging know it.:: He full-body jolts at the sound of a door opening — not his, one over, two over? still one over at least, still alive — and keeps relaxed and slightly annoyed on comms. ::Call off your fragging idiots before they ruin my op.::

::You—:: Visrax says. ::How the _frag_ do you have—oh.:: Visrax pauses, and sounds a different annoyed when he continues, ::Ohh, you’re stuck somewhere _dumb_ , aren’t you? I’m busy, you need to be more fraggin’ careful with your ops.::

Meister sighs, listens to the team check a closet that’s frelling _feet_ from his hiding place, and doesn’t sound at all like he’s baffled, injured, desperate, etc. ::If I hafta kill all your guards, yer gonna have a pit of a time keeping your prisoners contained.::

Vis sends a beat of empty comms, and Meister can picture the annoyed expression. ::This had better at least be funny.::

Meister grimaces. ::Keep Scift’s security team out of closet 002, yeah?::

Then he turns down his comms volume in time to balance Visrax’s _roar_ of laughter. Meister gives Vis a klik, and listens to confirm — Scift pausing in the search, security team shifting and shrugging at new commands. 

::Ha!:: Vis is still kinda laughing when Meister has to balance him back up for the words. ::Yep, thank you, _hilarious!_ That’s — don’t move, don’t you go any fragging where, _hah,_ be right there, I ain’t _that_ busy.::

Meister scowls — there’s nowhere to go, that’s the frelling point here. 

He debates between blank and purple brand — goes for the purple — and touches up his look — keeps the visor, sets it Meister-red — until Visrax’s heavy tread sounds in the hall and his closet door opens.

Visrax is a heavyframe and big for it — turns into something huge that flies and shoots fire and screaming lightning — and has an easy air of command that’s underscored by the dramatic backlight he’s got looming over Meister as he looks him over. “What in the Pit? Meister, you _slagger.”_ Vis laughs and shakes his head. “ _Frag_ , shoulda known nothing could kill ya!” Then he laughs some more. 

Meister rolls his optics and pushes to his pedes, stretching stiff and injured parts. “Yeah, yeah, get it out.”

“Hah, no, this is gonna be funny for cycles. You look like pitscrap.” Visrax steps back to let Meister in the hallway, checks him over as he starts to walk, and makes the right choice not offering him a hand. “C’mon, this way. Why the _frag_ were you in that closet?”

“Classified,” Meister says, following Visrax towards wherever the frag they’re going. “Just tell me I didn’t miss the TacOps Bot.”

Visrax twists in step to raise a brow at Meister — ‘classified’ ain’t gonna be enough, mid-term — then shrugs and nods. “Sure. He bolted like a glitch, but we caught him again,” Visrax says easily, nodding and holding up a hand to excuse himself a second. Meister gets another alert-ping, then, ::Search concluded, back to stations. Excellent work by Doubledown and Ionight.::

Well, frag. That’s — that’s good news for access, so Meister ain’t at all disappointed. “Huh.”

“He needs a half-joor with the medic, then we’ll get back to interrogation,” Visrax says. ::You here for him? You ain’t on the mnemo roster, but I will personally set you up with a monitor if I gotta — mnemo here is fragging hopeless. How’d you even get here, fragger?::

Hm, Meister might be able to talk Visrax into an unmonitored round with Prowl, and go from there. It’d breach protocol — protocol being designed in part to prevent random mechs from crawling out of closets and getting access to high-value prisoners. ::Keepin’ track of him, yeah.:: He shrugs. ::Wouldn’t say no to a go at him, but I ain’t actually got directive for it.:: He grins. ::Be more recreational.::

::Right.:: Visrax laughs back, and pauses at a doorway as they get towards main offices. ::Now, tell me how you got here, or I have to report you as a bogey.::

Meister shrugs, and remembers the scraps he managed to get off Trifoil’s data drives.::Came in from Risdan, slipped in with the early move.:: Not a lot of Cons are in through Risdan bridge yet — Trifoil was vanguard outta Helex — but enough for Meister to ghost in. 

::Huh, we got Risdan?:: Visrax says, relaxing enough to key them in. ::Why’s tha—:: He stops at the entrance and makes a face. “Mirage.”

Central command at the windplant seems to be a big shared office space towards the middle of the complex, mixed-use desks and chairs mostly cleared out or pushed together in the middle of the room to make a map table, a classic field camp war room — switch the plascrete and soft lights for alu-lloy and halogen strips and it’d be base camp at JFY-5.

A handful of mid-command types — Fortifor, Shot, Kill Switch, and some new guy — are at stations or meeting around the room, and pause and salute when Vis walks in.

Mirage is standing off, picking at the pocked surface of a long side table, and subtly trying to read maps and slag — no salute, blank expression, and a teensy twitch at his name.

“Sit down, and don’t pay attention to anything in this room but me,” Visrax orders Mirage as he gestures the rest of the room at ease and back to work.

Meister meets cautious looks with a wave and a wink, and no one introduces anyone. Meister chuckles — it’s a ‘that looks classified’ lack of questions, but Ricochet actually spent vorns stationed with most of these fraggers and that’s even funnier.

“Ey.” Meister squints at Mirage — Mirage takes a stiff, formal, seat at the table he’d been picking at and fixes his optics a met in front of him, on nothing at all. “You got a fragging Bot in your war room, Vis.”

“How _did_ I get by without your insight?” Vis wonders, stepping to a workstation to glance over some update summaries — angles his bulk to mostly block out Meister’s view. He points at Mirage — at his neck, really. “Bombshell’s project. He’s getting better with those shells. Mirage has been very helpful, and he’s barely had any medical crises.”

“Low bar,” Meister says, looking over Mirage. Mirage is perfectly fragging still, unless you count the way his optics keep flaring and fading. “Wait, you already got a hacked Bot, what kinda intel do you still need outta Prowl?”

Visrax finishes at his workstation and signs out with a laugh. He turns to Mirage. “Mirage,” he says, and Meister can see Mirage tense at the effort of not straightening to attention. “Who was your direct superior with the Autobots?”

“I-in an, a significantly improvised military structure as in the one in which w-we have, have found ourselves, generally, the c-clearest default, I suppose,” Mirage rambles placidly and so slowly he’s definitely trying to be annoying, “ t-to whom I am a-annd all, structurally, are beholden, is, is ultimately the Prime.”

“Yes, you like that answer,” Vis mutters. “It took a lot of that to get to ‘Prowl,’” he says over his shoulder to Meister. ::Like you said, low bar. Shells still ain’t perfect. He’s not trustworthy, emergency use only.:: He laughs, showing sharp teeth and quick optics. ::Kinda like you, Meissy-Meis.::

“Anyway.” Visrax drops a hand onto the table Mirage is still staring at, and leans to look at him. “Let’s get a better answer to an easier question: why _are_ you in my war room right now, Bot? Do you need more _attention?”_

Mirage smoothes his plating all of an inch. “I was told,” he says, careful — scared to be too flippant, “to inform you of urgent security breaches.”

Visrax reaches to tap lightly under Mirage’s chin. “Look at me,” he says, and Mirage’s gaze snaps up. “What’s the breach?”

“Prisoner escape,” Mirage says, tense-straight sat up, deadpan, optics overbright on Visrax.

Visrax stands up, throwing his hands in the air with a groan — slips to a laugh when he looks to Meister and sees him laughing. He nods at Meister and flicks a wave at Mirage. “Thank you for that useless upd—” Visrax pauses, and drops the laugh to consider Mirage — Mirage hasn’t budged from sitting stiff and staring. Visrax narrows his optics. “Prisoner escape when, who, and where?”

Mirage’s hands clench, unclench, clench — stay clenched as Mirage cracks a faint smile and wheezes a laugh in the static of his voice. “Everyone,” he says. “While Prowl was loose, here, everyone else got out.”

Visrax backhands Mirage hard enough to knock him out of the chair with a ringing clatter that everyone ignores. He huffs an irritated vent. “Lead with relevant details, fraggin’ toff.” Then he’s striding across the room, expression going distant with comms. 

Meister hops to the nearest good table for sitting — happens to be near where Kill Switch’s pulling camera feeds — and fiddles through local frequencies for something worth eavesdropping, takes a klik and a friendly scoot closer towards Kill Switch’s resonance to find Visrax’s voice.

Comm pickup ends up timing to the moment Visrax turns to level a skeptical frown at Meister. ::—a close optic on him. Ignore everything he says,:: Visrax comms out to Kill Switch and probably other people, still staring at Meister.

Meister ignores how rude and presumptive that is, and smiles back big. Sounds like Vis is off to fun, sensitive places, even more than the war room. “I can tag along, if you’re worried ‘bout me,” Meister offers.

::Oh, not when this started with you in a frelling closet!:: Vis says on their channel. “No, no need,” he says aloud. ::Mostly just organics, don’t hesitate to call me if he tries anything,:: he comms to the room, starting to go — still looking at Meister enough to raise a brow and shake his head slightly at him.

Meister shrugs and settles on his table with a laugh — catches Kill Switch’s frown and blows a kiss back without looking. “Vis, y’ _know_ organics are clever and vengeful, right?”

“I _know_ you have a lot to explain,” Visrax says, restraining his rude gesture — aw, fraggin’ command decorum — to a dismissive wave as he leaves with Fortifor following and Mirage towed along by the arm.

::Just sit tight, you fragger,:: he comms to Meister. ::Or vanish without a fragging trace for ten vorns. Your call.::

-

Kill Switch, Shot, and new guy — Yuline, if Meister’s reading the right signature — keep a close optic on Meister and ignore everything he says, so he ends up just ducking out the — pre-hacked, he had time waiting for them to relax some — door in a moment of distraction like some kinda high-stakes street magician.

Then — then he’s in friendly colors, got a working security pass, and enough of a map to get out — to vanish without a trace for ten vorns, probably. 

Cons really did get Risdan — Jazz got quarter way through a fragging write-up for Prowl before he even thought about it — that’s a spacebridge intersection and the Bots probably got an opinion on it — Meister’s main opinion right now is that it’s an easy fast route to get galaxies over, deep into Con — or Neutral, while that exists — territory with some decent forgery — he’s good at forgery. It’s an exit, and it’s a good exit.

Prowl’d still be a prisoner — for a bit. He’s more valuable alive, and after running their bit yesterday, Bots are in solid enough position to get a rescue done by end of the deca. Prowl’s _brilliant_ — overfull with cracks and burning up, but he doesn’t _need_ Jazz. He’d have a few bad days with Visrax — evil slagger, but not bad company — and he’d get out fine, without Meister.

And he, he could get out fine, without Prowl. Start new, or pick up like old — same diff, really — he’d be as free as anyone gets nowadays. It’d be fun — he’s good at fun — and it’d be — best as he can fragging tell — worse than seeing how much more time he can get with Prowl.

He’s — Jazz is not actually Prowl’s agent — or, frag, he is, but — Prowl, Prowler, not the Autobot Strategist, not the Autobots’ — not that there’s a _difference_. Not one that he understands, leastways — what difference does it make? Jazz doesn’t know — Prowl probably thinks he knows, but he’s fragging wrong.

Meister’s still gnawing at the issue when he makes it to the interrogation room — dungeon, scarce exaggerating — in the west grid corridor, and at that point it is what it is.

He laughs softly to himself as he picks up a mnemo kit and strolls into the unhealthy hot and humid cooked up by stress, injury, repair, hacking, and leaky pipes — some passing infantry looks up at the sound and hurriedly looks back down. 

If he was gonna run, he’da run yesterday.

The dataslug he tosses to Liveline and the DSO-anon id he pings to the techs check out perfect — he’s familiar with the whole slaggin’ mnemo core here, and he’s good at forgery. Biggest delay getting Prowl out ends up being the hole Prowl managed to get shot in him during his escape.

“H-he’ll be much more able to tolerate stress with another breem of stabilizers, sir,” one of the techs — Watt, scared of strangers, for solid reasons — says, standing between Meister and Prowl’s door, keeping out of reach.

Meister feels a smile at the bitlet’s fairly pointless stand, lets it tip into a laugh at the anxious spark off Watt’s visor. He nods and picks a wall to hold up. “Sweet. Take two, if it’ll get ‘im better,” he says, grin lopsided. “I ain’t about a medic over my shoulder. I’ll be gentle, but I don’t wanna hafta, ya dig?” He stops himself from playing with his claws — slag’s clipped, right.

Watt scrabbles off, and everyone finds something busy to do. They take three breems, and then politely frag off to give Meister his requested space. He waggles a wave at the last to go — Liveline — keeps his antsiness under control, and dips into the office-cell-sickroom where they’ve got Prowl.

It was an office first, so there’s slagall furniture — there’s anchors for an old heavy fixture, and now they’ve threaded chains through like Prowl ain’t also stasis-restrained into a weak slump. He’s swaying with the effort it takes to look up and squint at the door, shaking with it as he gets his expression haughty — a fearless front, like the idiot hero he tries not to be.

Meister laughs, unhooks the center chain, and — eyeing how it pulls his weight — catches Prowl as he stumbles free.

Prowl flinches and yanks at Meister, trying to claw out leverage and get a _vicious_ elbow slammed to his visor, fast enough that Meister — quick fragger dodging easy — still catches a tweak of impact on his jaw. 

“Ain’t—” Meister dances back and away, getting out of weak restrained prisoner punching range and laughing harder as Prowl keeps thrashing — Prowler’s fighting dirty, and his optics are _brutal_ flat. “Ain’t so good with faces, huh Prowler?”

Prowl freezes, staring — or he runs out of energy. Probs both. He struggles between some emotions, and settles mostly anxious — hands shaking a bit. “Meister,” he says, nodding a little greeting like they’re passing on the street.

Meister grins bright and nods back just as casual, drops back in to get the stasis cuffs dialed down and Prowl stood up. “Let’s go, yeah? All the time we’re getting is luck.”

Prowl frowns at that — baps a sensor panel against Meister in a disgruntled flare — even as he tests how much weight he can hold up on his own, easing out of Meister’s clutches. “You are not exaggerating, are you,” Prowl mutters. “What is the plan?”

“Lie, escape, repeat.” Laughing, Meister overrules Prowl’s motion to walk on his own, gets a good grip for holding and hauling. They’re good to run — ain’t heavy at all.

Prowl’s leaking, Visrax is... somewhere, and peeking at maps isn’t the same as real scouting or planning — Meister’s authorization reads legit, he knows how to sneak, and field camps aren’t well set for security. 

On balance, Prowl gives 84% for an uninterrupted escape — feels a bit pessimistic while they’re waltzing through dark access tunnels. Then the air in front of them fuzzes and shimmers, and Meister’ll have to follow up on whether they’re in the other 16%, or if Prowl didn’t think Mirage would be looking out for him.

Mirage stands straight with rallied authority. “This is not an approved movement,” he says, nervous, brave — touch like Watt, only way fragging _worse_. “Where are you taking him?”

“Mirage,” Prowl says, pulling and swaying a little trying to walk or something.

Meister yanks Prowl back steady. He laughs, ‘cause it helps with resisting the urge to make frustrated whining noises. “ _Why_ ,” he whines, “you doing this to me, Raj?”

Raj — seems like the kinda mech to not get a lot of nickname use — blinks and studies them over. Meister — inching them towards a turnoff hallway — fidgets his vibe to something a little less spikey-dangerous. It’s a solid disguise, it’s an honest credit to Mirage that recognition catches quick as it does.

Soon as Meister sees realization in Mirage — before there’s even time for relief — he sees it fold over to horror and regret, and Meister releases Prowl onto his own pedes so he can draw and arm the blaster he picked up, spin and check the hallway.

Standard service tunnel heading out from west quarter — half-kil from open exit — plascrete patching exposed pipes and bundles into uneven corners and nooks, including one Visrax can take over and still have the reach to block off the path as he saunters over, weapons spun up, head cocked, not looking too concerned about the blaster Meister’s got on him.

“Meister,” Vis says, and ‘angry’ and ‘friendly’ sound pretty similar from him but Meister can hear the frelling difference. “Working for the Bots?”

Mirage flares slightly, takes another look at — hah, well, now Raj knows about Meister, too.

Meister counts tunnel exits — two desperate ones for him, none for Prowl — and frowns. 

They haven't — he's not actually a defector. He is, technically, and he's obeyed orders, sure — but they haven't really asked him for anything. It's been 'facilitation,' forwarding contact between Jazz and his Bot-friendlies. “Working _with_ ,” he corrects, feeling it out with a nod, “ _a_ Bot.” He flashes a smile at Prowl.

Prowl’s optics are flitting around the area in time with the bob of his good wing, the flex of his fingers, and the churn of his processor. When he lands on Jazz, he pauses, optics stress-bright but with a flicker of maybe-imaginary smile underneath.

Mirage twitches hard enough to be noticeable peripherally.

Meister ignores him and shrugs his smile over to Visrax. “Y’all do y’all out here, ain’t really my game. But he’s—” He laughs, runs a hand over his face and jerks his elbow to point at Prowl without aiming the blaster away from Vis. “He’s my sparkmate or some slag, and I’mma need him.”

Visrax laughs, and it’s still slagged-off, but it’s got the exasperated tone like when he’s ready to save Meister from his own stupidity. Meister once saw — helped — Visrax gather three villages into their meeting hall and then set it on fire. He’s got no care for Visrax. But they are — loosely — friends.

“Meister,” Vis says, almost pitying. “Fragging _Prowl?_ A fragging _Enforcer?_ He’s... Y’know he’s...” Visrax looks around the tunnel for a way to describe Prowl. He snags on Mirage, and perks, optics bright and thoughtful. “Mirage,” he says. “What was that surprise about?”

Mirage blinks like he’d zoned out from boredom and needs a second to orient with everyone looking at him — oh so _now_ he can play dumb. He shrugs, and it barely shakes. “He’s a famous Con. It is surprising, and a bad romantic match.”

Prowl’s shifted to vaguely back-to-back with Meister, leaning on him a little, wings spread for data, tracking between threats and best — not viable — exits.

Vis laughs. “Frag but you’re a bad spy.” He grins and shakes his head, catching Meister’s optic for a moment. “Both of you are kinda slag spies. It ain’t even secret, really.” He reaches across the standoff to Mirage — lightly shoves Mirage’s shoulder. “Quit fraggin’ lying, and confirm for me, though. Why’d you jump like it zapped when you thought about Meister keen on Prowl?”

Meister frowns. “Frag you Vis, I’m a great spy.” His blaster’s a high-set 700B, might be able to take down Vis, probably not before Vis kills someone or calls backup.

“Shut it and listen for a nano.” Vis shifts a step to close off the best exit and drop a hand on Mirage’s shoulder. “A great spy, working with — c’mon, Mirage?”

Mirage winces under an encouraging squeeze — opens, closes, his mouth, clicks a few soft stressed noises. The hand on his shoulder tightens enough to creak metal, and Mirage lurches to look away as he says, “I was surprised that Meister was overlooking Prowl’s role in the operation that, according to record, killed him.”

Mirage is standing tense and Vis is making some gesture — Meister has fragall attention for them. Meister’s turned looking at Prowl, and, Prowl — 

Prowl’s a genius with a theoretical grasp on the benefits of the art, but — time like now, thing like this — a bad liar. He’s stumbled back, half-turned between Meister and grimy wall and enemies, and he’s trying to look surprised or confused — surprisingly blatant tiny tells are all panic and guilt.

“Prowl,” Meister says, making Prowl go still and his optics go brighter. “What’s that role now?”

“I,” Prowl says, not moving or emoting enough to look natural as he talks, “I have had many roles in many oper—”

Meister laughs — blaster wavers off Vis for a nano before Meister gets back under control. “You,” Meister says, “are gonna wanna think _real_ hard before you say you don’t remember.”

Prowl shuts his mouth. He breathes in deliberate measure and, slowly, straightens to fully face Meister and drift a step back towards the wall — not like he’s thinking hard — like he’s just delaying.

Meister don’t mind the delay, lets the moment drag on and watches Prowl gather. Nothing big shifts, and Prowl hardly moves, breathes harsh but even, and visibly _gathers_.

Prowl nods, once — storm of fear and frustration and guilt and _loss_ tucked neatly away under — dead bland. He reports evenly to the space in front of him, “I conceived, planned, and oversaw the execution of the operation that ended Meister’s career.” 

_Career_ — that killed Splice, Revercore, Diaphone, Saxo, and 44 other crewmates Meister can still name on bad nights — it don’t even hurt fresh to hear — it’s a swell of old rage and grief that never goes away, not really. 

Everyone’s staring, so Meister grabs a reaction — a smile, for some reason. Not one that puts anyone at ease, hah. He puffs one breath of laugh — gives up on it, drops his smile, drops his blaster — safeties the blaster, don’t want any accidents.

He pauses, checking over — Prowl ain’t moved, Mirage is staring at some new fixed middle distance, Vis is saying something — something something Autobot liars and hypocrites, looking smug and sympathetic. Meister gets the laugh on the second try, ducking behind a hand — not enough to miss visuals if weapons move — enough to stifle a hiss of — of — embarrassment, overall. 

“‘Scuse me,” Meister says. He nods — kinda at Visrax, mostly at no one — and steps, sidesteps past Vis, gets going down a path somewhere, gets some _fragging_ _space_ , and no one stops him.


	36. Chapter 36

Given recent complication, Prowl sketches an increase in probability of painful and protracted death before extraction. He has trouble gauging whether it crosses a threshold that should motivate a change in personal strategy. (He is having trouble focusing.)

Jazz did not so much as glance backwards as he left. Visrax’s continued discourse on Prowl’s general manipulative and sparkless nature does not particularly hamper his efficacy in re-securing Prowl, and Prowl is again chained in the corner of an interrogation-retrofitted office, soon enough to allow Visrax to pause at the door and unmark some of the time Jazz had scheduled for interrogation. (He does not see Jazz.)

Jazz does not re-appear, and Prowl has no control over whether or not he will, so it is useless to obsess over it. Every unidentified sound or sufficient passage of time prompts Prowl to contemplate whether Jazz will re-appear, in an ad nauseum compulsive loop that may be feeding from or into a general feeling of witless despair. He is unable to properly update his base scenario parameters by the time an interrogator (not Jazz) comes in, even though the crust of congealed energon that tears from Prowl's injuries as he is rearranged implies that it has been at least half a joor. (8t-1% his sense of time is significantly delirious.)

Unsure whether or not he should be attempting to goad this mech into killing him, Prowl thrashes in expressive upset and manages to rip a gap and tear the interrogator’s secondary fuel artery. (They do not kill him, though security does slam him pinned with enough sustained force to slow-fracture a lumbar strut.)

This interrogator is incompetent, and has no chance of retrieving information. At least shock prods and pried plating are very immediate sensations, and he does not suffer unwelcome interpersonal despair when he is mostly experiencing pain. (Precursor, to tire Prowl — 90%.)

Prowl has interrogation to resist, and it is unwise (and pathetic) to be distracted by the idea that Jazz, that this, that Jazz — that this is how it _ends_. (This was always going to be how it ended.) 

It hurts to think about and Prowl has little space for thoughts outside of survival and escape. (Everything Prowl thinks orbits, decays, spirals, and plunges into — the memory, horridly vivid, of Jazz, walking away, without quite the grace he is meant to move with, without a single pause or backwards look at Prowl.)

The second interrogator (Wolfgrip, interrogator 3rd class, very aggressive) is better. Prowl does not slip any information. He is emotionally distressed, not entirely remiss.

After Prowl manages to work free of the chains (anchored in breakable plascrete) and maul his external data nodes into a less easily exploitable state, he is moved to a smaller cage-like cell (that appears to have once been part of a fluid lock system) and cuffed through heavy bars when he is unattended. At this point he is unable to do much, physically.

Prowl is left alone for some quantity of times of some length, and physical discomfort is fairly distracting but not in a particularly useful way. There is, in fact, an odd physicality to the _thing_ Prowl circles. (Jazz is gone.) It is too physical for a thought, paired too exactly with a reaction of dumb terror. 

Prowl should not be reacting so strongly. He _knew_ (97%) that revelation of his role against Meister in operation μ-DQ would terminate Jazz’s bizarre infatuation, and he _should_ have expected (48%) disclosure by now. (Prowl _knows_ his decisions forfeit him personal connection, he is _meant_ to be _accustomed_ to it.)

It is both worthless and embarrassingly incognizant to expect anything other than Jazz walking away like he was horrified to be so attached to Prowl. It is actively detrimental to continue to be distracted by irrelevant _possibilities_.

So, Prowl does not think about how _terrifying_ it is to never see Jazz again.

Then Meister shows up, and Prowl is obviously a _moron_ with _no foresight,_ because he is _completely unprepared_ for what is suddenly, _obviously_ a _much worse_ scenario.

Prowl is cuffed to the bars of a cage in the messy basement of a civil engineering works layered with debris and cast off military and interrogation supplies, and 45% rusted by surface area, and it was _safe_ until the steel hall door creaked open and Jazz—Mei—Ja—Meister slipped through.

Meister shuts the door behind him with a dipping step, into a bouncy gait that weaves leisurely around the room while tending definitively towards Prowl. He whistles (Tessal’s Entrance Overture) as he approaches.

Prowl is cuffed and weak and had been hanging most of his weight on the bars (he cannot sit), but finds that he is able, is compelled to straighten and face J—Meister. There is no purpose to it, but Prowl makes himself stand up, finds himself painfully tense and unable to change that, unable to properly focus on Meister, and unable to entirely look away. Why is he here? (Confrontation {k!~}: for closure, condemnation, context {{f(j}|**{*}}; malice, g _8*_ 8%)

“Heya Prowler,” Meister says, also not looking properly at Prowl. He is looking at, stretching to brace at, some kind of electrical panel (77%) on an internal pillar. “One sec.”

Prowl watches Meister dawdle around various surfaces and objects in the room for at least several seconds of painfully slow approach. Prowl spends the time desperately assembling something to say, shoving through stress he can _hear_ in his own rushing (over burdened) systems. What does he want? What is he going to do? (Why is he here?) 

“Meister,” Prowl greets, exhausting his prepared words.

“Yes, yup!” Meister looks up at the sound, flashes a typical ( _terrifying_ ) grin at Prowl, looks back down to the nondescript section of wall he had been studying, nods to himself, and hops to ( _finally_ ) stand just outside Prowl’s cell. He is still humming, at first, but trails off and frowns at Prowl. (What is he going to do?) “How you doin’?” he asks.

Prowl’s cell is not level with the floor, but Meister is shorter and is crouching slightly to compensate, so their optics are of a height. Prowl locks his optics towards Meister, though his actual focus greys in and out due to a combination of emotional and physical stress. (Meister is here to hurt him, _*XbR_ %.)

Meister is staring at him, still frowning. (Waiting for an answer, N9%.)

Unable to strategize, Prowl resorts to honesty. “I am very anxious,” he says.

“Yeah.” Meister’s frown deepens, and he nods. “Yeah, you gonna be okay? I hear some dodgy internal noises there. You got a crash risk?”

Prowl does not know how Jazz can hear abnormal system sounds over the volume of standard overclocking fans and servos. They are almost certainly ({43k*|tnb||M2}) happening, though. Tac net is shedding error and stealing resourcing and Prowl is (8[2-6]%) going to crash. Meister is waiting for an answer. “I...” Prowl says, failing to construct the end goal of the question, “may crash under continued stress.”

Ja—Meister nods and steps backwards, hands spread. “Uh huh,” he says, still watching Prowl with a fixed air of — concern? “Okay, anything I can do to help you around that? Do you get aura?”

Prowl does not, precisely, get aura. He does, sometimes, remain aware as asynchronous system failures cascade and shred his world. 

“Are—” Prowl stops himself from outright asking whether Meister is angling to crash him, in case (*3%) it would seed the idea. 

It is debilitating, demanding of medical attention, and of poor tactical value, if getting information from Prowl is still any kind of priority (9E%). It is also very painful, and Prowl understands that it can be very amusing to witness, if Meister’s goals are more personal. (Meister waits.)

“A-are you looking to crash me?” Prowl asks, because he does not know what else to do.

“Nah, opposite!” Jazz takes another step back and shakes his head. “I just know you crash some,” he explains, having gained enough space to shrug and gesture. “I mean, it’s basically your own business if you wanna keep it that way. Though—” He pauses, (red) visor brightening in engagement. “I _was_ thinking about how we — it’s a big medical thing, right?” 

Meister nods to himself, rocking into motion, turning to stroll along the short width of Prowl’s cell. “I realized — y’know, it is kinda weird how much we don’t know about each other.”

Here it is, then. Prowl feels every system cycle up in useless anticipation.

“Like, do you have a crash action plan?” Jazz shrugs again, and spins to grin at Prowl and to switch walking (pacing) direction. “Tell me later— Now, I was thinking, you got a bit of a skewed impression of me, too — of what I do.”

Meister pauses in step when he is closest to where Prowl is cuffed to the bars, and leans in. “Sure, you got a little, you kinda know this. But I feel like you still gotta _see—_ ” Jazz steps back to gesture (favoring left arm) and pace and bounce slightly with — nervous energy? “I’m a liar. And a hacker, and a sneak, and more.” He waves impatiently. “But it ain’t my _job,_ right? That slag’s a means to — frag, means to a means to an ends, dig? That’s not — it ain’t really what I _do,_ ” he says. “Y’know what I really do?”

Prowl has exceptionally little understanding of what Jazz really does. Tac net continues to complain, fear is mixing oddly with _confusion_ , and physical pain corrodes his comprehension of Jazz’s skipping strokes of conversation. “Kill people?”

“I—what?” Jazz stops mid-pace to look at Prowl. “No. What? No — sure, yes, but that’s even more—Prowler, you _know_ I hate killing people, c’mon.” He frowns and shakes his head, one hand held up in a way that discourages Prowl from interrupting. 

“I find,” Jazz says, resuming pacing for one and a half steps. “I get in...” He starts and stops a gesture, and then shakes his head again, exaggerating the motion over his entire frame. He hops back to the spot in front of Prowl and crosses his arms. “Okay. I had a whole speech, but I’m distracted by how bad that answer was. What? You think my punchline here is murder?”

It was a reasonable guess, far more reasonable than is fair to expect in this situation. Prowl frowns. “It seemed maximally dramatic, which is most of what I am grasping as your current goal.”

Jazz laughs. “Hey, I’m going somewhere,” he says, “why not get there in style?” He shrugs, and his laughter fades as he looks Prowl over again. “Frag,” he mutters, stepping the rest of the way in and (gently) touching a stasis cuff where it cuts against Prowl’s wrist. “Yeah, maybe important talk later, though. Killing people ain’t my thing, s’all. Brace.”

Prowl braces, taking weight off the stasis cuffs locking him to the bars, so that he does not fall down when Jazz picks a lock. He stumbles anyway, falls back as soon as the first cuff releases, loses balance to exhaustion and injury, and slumps weight against the curved cell wall. In greying under-resourced waves of vision, Jazz appears to be watching, frowning, fingers twitching. 

“Music,” Prowl updates his guess.

Jazz perks up. “Yeah, thank you!” Then he shrugs back into motion, pulling stowed pieces of something from under his plating and fitting them together.

“Not where I was going _at all_ , but a way better guess. Music’s my thing, sure! I like music, I’m good at — eh, I’m fine at music, music’s important, gotta have music. I mean, nothing else, my chrono’s still off.” Jazz nods and bounces back up to Prowl’s cell, leaning close so that Prowl can hear him switch an internal song (an alien composition, artifacting in strange ranges) into audible play and Prowl can track how he assembles his project in time to the sound. 

“Still ain’t really what I _do_ , though, what I’m _really_ good at, these days — stay back, look away, yeah?” Jazz finishes assembling what Prowl finally identifies as an 8M-type improvised explosive (bright and _loud_ ) and waves Prowl back from the bars while he secures and sets the charge one-handed. “What I—”

Prowl draws his sensor wings in and throws an arm over his face, carefully angling so that he does not muffle his shouting. “That will be _audible to sec—_ ” (urity nearby, 94%) 

“Sorry T minus seven — _c’mon,_ Prowler let me have my line. I — okay, I killed some people setting this up, but what I _do_ ,” Jazz says in a rush, “is blow slag up.”

Prowl can hear the fragging grin in Jazz’s voice, as well as a pick up in the music, which hits a sharp beat exactly as a reverberating _crack_ shakes from past a far wall, and the 8M placed on his cell lock detonates, bright and loud enough to be uncomfortable through Prowl’s shielding.

Prowl’s senses are still resettling to their currently poor baseline when he feels arms on him, pulling him up. He swipes blindly and hits nothing, regains vision in time to see Jazz’s _abominable_ slag eating grin as he manages to dodge without dropping Prowl.

 _“What_ are you doing?” Prowl demands. Once he is clear of the cell, he shoves away from Jazz, grabbing at a wall to regain his footing despite a full body sensation of violent tremor. Then the tremor abruptly passes (because it was external, another explosion, elsewhere) and Prowl finds his balance, immediately triggering a blaze of pain through damaged components, and founders again.

Jazz catches him easily with his good arm, hauling Prowl along as he says _something,_ which Prowl cannot hear because Prowl is _deafened_ because 8Ms are _loud_ and Jazz just set one off _six decimets from his wings._

Another explosion rocks the building, from 10-60/90-150 degrees. 

Jazz pulls. Gestures, contact vibration, and high priors suggest (83%) that Jazz is babbling at him.

Prowl allows Jazz to waltz him out of the (collapsing, 59%) cell block, and allows five steps in order to gauge their mechanical stability before he swings the most convenient weapon (the stasis cuff dangling from his left wrist) to smack the nearest safe part (face) on Jazz. “I cannot hear you.”

‘Ow,’ Jazz enunciates at Prowl, in a precious moment of clear (visor-lit) visual while they are staggering towards an emergency exit in a shaking hallway. Jazz rearranges his grip (he is hiding injury) on Prowl so that he can clumsily gesture ‘more explosive,’ and then ‘run,’ which he accompanies with illegible shouting (likely to the same effect).

They run 24 unsteady mets along a lightless hall, to a corner where Jazz temporarily releases Prowl to peel down an emergency hatch (triggering an alarm, 70%). Then they run (crawl) out and up a sloped external ramp, Jazz taking lead to force them to passable (1 _H_ mpk) evasive speed as the terrain steadies out.

Outside (they are outside now, 99.5%) is dark and windy, and misshapen structures fold their path to zig-zagging. Prowl wrestles his visual processing into sufficient cooperation to make out a dark field of battered wind turbines and turbine parts, which Jazz guides him through at a rattling pace.

 _Whatever_ Jazz has just done, Prowl is confident (93%) that continuing to run is in his best interest. He tries. He follows across the wind fields, ignores sweeps of error and pain longer than he is able to track (probably not long) and does not drag more than honest exhaustion dictates. 

He tires. He trips, and Jazz adjusts his grip ( _magnetizes_ his grip, enough to blight damaged circuits) to drag through Prowl’s tripping, and drags a repeatedly tripping Prowl, until Prowl cannot recover from tripping, at which point they both collapse.

Jazz releases Prowl to a heap on the ground, teeters a step, recovers, and throws himself alongside Prowl in a pseudo-controlled dive that bodily shoves both of them into an alcove formed by a fallen turbine. A momentary sense of stillness is broken by noticeable shaking from Jazz, and by the air (noxiously hot; registering as cool on Prowl’s redlining temperature regulation) pouring off him (off both of them).

Prowl’s hearing is returning. He can hear Jazz laughing. 

“Hah!” Jazz says. “Yeah, far ‘nough, yeah. F’real, should be fine.”

With excruciating effort, Prowl sits up slightly to squint back the way they’d come. Behind them, the remaining walls and towers of the wind plant complex continue to lurch and drop.

“Step det,” Jazz explains, voice faded and smudged with tinitus. “Herdin’m out the other side, mostly. More t’be good safe — ‘ready got anyone’d be a real problem.” He gulps air and stretches, realigning strained systems enough to maintain (generally) coherent speech. Jazz is able to gracefully kick up to a ready crouch, and appears largely undamaged, though Prowl has trouble judging through the crackling fog of tac net error and the unfamiliar dark paint and jagged features of — of Meister.

“Meister,” Prowl says. Tac net cuts in with a belated flag for clarification on Jazz’s words. “Is still an intact identity?”

Meister scoots back, letting more cool air in between them, and facing Prowl. He nods, still stretching, his shaking settling into rhythmic fidgeting. “Yeah, got a profile that keeps me Con, and killed everyone who got my name.” He holds at a stretch bracing his arm across his chest and hums, mouth thinning. “‘Cept Mirage. You got a tracker on Mirage?”

Mirage may (62%) still have his retrieval beacon, though Prowl would need access to secure Autobot radionav systems to locate it. Tac net starts a scenario that Prowl promptly quits for his health.

“I want the code for that,” Meister says. He flicks his plating, twisting and smoothing kibble down to a more recognizable state, and rolls forward to kneel over Prowl. His visor washes back to blue as he looks over Prowl and reaches for Prowl’s wrist (Prowl’s reflex is to jerk away, but a burr catches in his arm and the movement grinds to nothing) to arc out the lock on and remove the remaining stasis cuff.

Tac net is still reeling, Prowl is still confused, but basic reasoning seems to indicate, however implausible — no. No, Prowl cannot trust any conclusions in alignment with something he _wants_ so powerfully. Prowl works his arm until the burr slips and he can again move, can cautiously sit up a little more. “To be clear,” he says. “Are you... rescuing me?”

Meister freezes, leaned in to inspect a twisted seam on Prowl’s side. He looks up sharply, frowning, and Prowl twitches.

 _“Prowl,”_ Jazz groans. He dandles the broken pair of stasis cuffs and uses them to roughly indicate their surroundings and general situation. “Seriously, Prowler?”

“I am very stressed!” Prowl reminds him. Besides which, rescue can simply be an exchange of captivity, if Meister — if Jazz simply wants a more, more intimate access.

Jazz laughs, gesturing again back at the wrecked windplant, which tac net continues to stick on, and which, last Prowl was aware, also had _other prisoners_ and — Jazz stops, glancing at Prowl and pausing at whatever he sees.

His laughter fades and he exvents heavily. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m rescuing you, c’mon.” He makes a motion between a shrug and nod, and rocks back to push up to standing. “And we gotta check a rendezvous, and I got a busted axle, and you got a busted everything, so we’re walking. Can you walk?”

He will have to. It takes some strategic rocking and levering against rough handholds of eroded turbine for Prowl to make it upright, and he braces carefully against the wind when he steps out of the alcove to follow around the corner where Jazz went.

Jazz is standing less than a met around the corner, potentially for the express purpose of making Prowl trip to avoid walking into him. (He catches and steadies him, and allows Prowl to shove away.) 

Prowl frowns at the horizon. Optimal path back to Autobot lines is south. But they have a _rendezvous_ to check. Jazz has local contacts, and may (44%) have communicated with them, and Prowl should not overweight optimistic possibilities. “There were other prisoners,” he says, careful not to hope.

Jazz nods and salutes lazily as he walks by. “They _been_ got out,” he says, lightly except for a twist of his mouth at the end. “Mostly. Mostly out, and out or dead since ‘fore I went for you, and we passed a message — no confirm — after. They’ll meet us along 0F-6Y, if they can, want to, and know to.”

There is little Prowl can do. There was little Prowl could have done, but the sense of reassurance is still palpable.

Jazz turns to check Prowl over again while they walk. “Hey, it’s gonna be a ways. You need patching to make it?”

83%, yes. Prowl adjusts his gait so that he is not obviously limping and watches Jazz back, warily. “Is medical care an option?”

“Yeah, I got a medkit — top notch, even got proper processor-grade piezo bearings.” Jazz grins, and Prowl understands (Y4%) that he is somehow being tricked.

He says nothing.

“Related request,” Jazz says, undeterred. “Unlock my subspace access?”

Prowl frowns. “Your subspace systems are damaged, baffled, locked, and very complex.”

“Which is how I lucked into not getting my good slag stole!” Jazz nods at Prowl with excitement that feels misplaced. The excitement flickers, and Jazz backs away a pace, dims his smile. “Or, I snagged some basics. And, gotta ask — How do you feel about some light-to-moderate wiresharing for otherwise non-invasive field surgery?”

Jazz wants to pair systems to access his subspace, messily crossing components between two damaged frames, _before_ the medkit is retrieved. Exposing delicate internals to a mech who probably (*m4 _.W%_ ) hates him and is being _very unsettling_ about it. Prowl frowns so hard that he stops walking.

Jazz lifts and spreads his hands and nods again, stepping back. “‘Kay! Just thi—”

(Without intervention, Prowl will crash before reaching Autobot territory, 83%.) “I have a broken lumbar strut,” Prowl says.

“A—” Jazz’s visor brightens, and tracks towards the dent in Prowl’s side, which Prowl indeed acquired during the same incident. Jazz hisses and grimaces, looking overly alarmed for a mech whose left arm is held on by duct tape. “Uh. _Yeah_ , we gotta splint that. Yeah?”

Standing up is very difficult, so Prowl is reluctant to sit down for the procedure. As it happens, Jazz accepts this with a shrug and allows him to remain standing while he nudges cracked claws under plating. 

In silence and stillness, with Jazz twisting their wires together, Prowl has the uncomfortable urge to remind Jazz that Prowl killed people he loved, and ask whether, and if so, what, he has thought about that lately. 

Fortunately, retrieval of the medkit soon requires Prowl’s active involvement (essentially, Jazz helps Prowl hack and pickpocket his subspace) and splinting his fracture afterwards is sufficiently distracting, and then they have to walk more.

With the primary Decepticon field camp destroyed, local patrols are likely (99%) disorganized. This is still dangerous enough to motivate wariness, and demotivate rest.

They walk.

It is quiet, and Jazz regularly scouts ahead, and Prowl wonders if he will be able to remember walking and talking and _joking_ with Jazz without memories of this spilling in to ruin it (3%).

Prowl loses track of time and distance, which can be alarming as an indicator of great time and distance, but is currently alarming as an indicator of processor deintegration.

He loses track of Jazz, and therefore their heading (F-5Y, 18%), for a breem (plus or minus two) during which he comes to an intersection. There are at least two reasonable directions, and Prowl takes neither. He stands, unsure whether or not to continue and unsure where, precisely, he is. For a moment. _6Y_ , he realizes, and prods (Jazz is looking for rendezvous) in model update.

He is waiting for other people. He waits, leaning against a rock.

Jazz returns unaccompanied, shrugs at Prowl’s look, and continues walking.

They walk for more indeterminate time. Prowl is increasingly sure that remaining silent is bad for his health in an immediate and imminently critical way. Still, he waits a few more slagged city blocks, to let the decision settle, and to wait for a moment when Jazz is in conversational range and does not appear distracted.

“I did run that mission,” Prowl says. He feels worse, as he sometimes does when tangled processing threads (Jazz did not _believe_ , {GNr|f(j(x))}) drop.

Jazz continues walking, in conversational range and not apparently distracted.

Prowl feels an internal buzzing intensify into minor dizziness, at a rate that does not feel sustainable. He considers that he may have to repeat himself. Does he need to rephrase? To clarify? Does Jazz simply not want to talk about it? Does Prowl want to talk about it?

After a moment (or several), Jazz snorts. 

“Oh,” he says, and he is still walking, and Prowl keeps pace and tries to read something in Jazz. 

Slowly, Jazz shrugs, and extends it into a stretch. He huffs a laugh, pointed somewhat away from Prowl. “Oh, give me _some_ smelting credit. I—” he says. His laugh picks up, and he shakes his head to grin at Prowl. (His visor is too bright.) “C’mon. _Visrax_ knew, and he wasn’t a tenth the nosy bereaved I am.”

Tac net quits (and good riddance). 

Jazz snorts again, shrugs and shakes his head again, and his grin mostly fades as he looks away. “Prowler, I knew since before we met on the Advance,” he says. “I like knowing slag, ‘course it came up.”

Prowl feels full of frayed threads, and he does not know what Jazz is thinking, is feeling. He remembers, again, the _pain_ on Jazz’s face in the access tunnel under the windplant. “You...” Prowl hesitates, and he cannot tell if Jazz’s neutrality is patience or danger. “Your anger was very convincing.”

“Yeah.” Jazz nods. “Everyone I loved died — and the _strangest_ thing about it was that we lasted so long at all.” He exvents roughly, and there, there is some of that anger again. “My crew are dead. That hurts every way it can. I am plenty mad,” he says, and that sounds like _danger_ , even as he glances to Prowl with another strange shrug. “Not at you though. You were just doing your job.” He hums, towards a dilapidated wall. “And doing it well. Precise op.”

Prowl flinches. “That does not _matter_ ,” he says.

Jazz finally turns to face Prowl. He frowns. “You want me to be mad at you?”

“Of course not,” Prowl says, though he sees how that could be inferred, and he is not entirely sure what he does want. He considers. “I want you to be honest,” he says, “and I want you to hold me to _actual_ standards.”

Jazz watches Prowl, with more attention than he should be able to spare from walking backwards over rubble.

“Oh,” Jazz says, again, this time staring at Prowl and not sm—and pausing at least a moment before he smiles. “Okay,” he says. “But I stand by it. Hate that it happened, but we were—” The smile goes again, and Jazz shrugs again. “Valid military targets.” He grimaces. “Woulda killed you right back, given the chance. Doesn’t make sense to hate you for it.”

No, it does not make sense, indeed. “People do not tend to...” Prowl glares at Jazz, who watches him back, head cocked in attention. “You do not make sense.”

Jazz laughs. “Fair point.” He nods and schools himself somewhat serious (still smiling faintly). “I don’t hate you for my crew,” he says, plainly. “I don’t hate you.”

Prowl, confronted with context and clarity and, and everything, can only believe him. It feels, again, far more physical than it seems like it should. (He thinks he should say something.) “I,” he says. Some deep tension in him untwists, and it is _absurd_ that it should be physically easier to walk (he is so tired of walking) but it is. “I do not take it for granted.”

Jazz gestures vague acknowledgement and it feels friendly, and they are still walking through rubble, but it feels different.

It feels, very quickly, too different. 

Too much, too many, too intense. Prowl does not, technically, experience pre-crash aura, because, theoretically, his crashes can be postponed with proper response to initial symptoms. (Current environment inauspicious.)

Tac net reintegrates to let Prowl know that it is crashing, and taking his gyro systems with it, so that the world tips under and around him. “Shsiiiishkkxx,” he informs Jazz.

“Prowler?” Someone says, only Prowl missed the explosion that damped his hearing again. _“‘Ey, no_ , babe, _no_ , that wasn’t a _fragging_ deathbed absolution don’t you fragg—”

( _c’mon c’mon c’mon please —_  
it is indeed a ‘top notch’ medkit  
_fraggin work baby gimme readouts c’mon please please please_ —  
it even has a neurofettler that Meister capably needles under Prowl’s plating  
_readouts and a fraggin line any line c’mon no no no there yes that that_  
intelligence indicates that Greyglass, Meister’s bosun, has a processor condition similar to Prowl’s  
_yes yes baro thank you yes now gimme heat yes yes there yes_ — 

emergency gel stabbed into melting components is very uncomfortable, but Prowl has no motor control and limited overall awareness

 _live please live live live please please please c’mon please_ )

He wakes gradually, registering discomfort and building the world out from there, in nonsense priority. It is bad that they did not find the other escaped windplant prisoners. It is good that Prowl was not near anyone fragile when he lost motor control.

“Wouldn’ta let ya hold them, you been flagging obviously,” Jazz says, from very nearby. Same train car? (r%.) They are moving (rr%).

“Still a silver lining, though maybe just for my dignity,” Jazz muses. He sounds tired. He is carrying Prowl. (Not advised for crashing mechs; well-advised for fugitives.) “That was frelling scary. I panicked.”

“I heard,” Prowl says, with pleasingly little vocal glitch. He onlines his optics to confirm that Jazz is carrying him through the western suburbs of Cattax (near Autobot lines). 

Prowl kicks to be let down. “Good job. You saved my life and postponed a shutdown crash.”

“What— _postponed?_ ” Jazz tries to keep a hold, and it is a testament to Jazz’s exhaustion that Prowl is able to break free. “That about to happen again? When?”

Prowl winces at the volume Jazz reaches with his questions, and tries to walk away to flee the noise. His legs hurt, and he trips. He falls. Everything hurts. There are flakes and coolgel residues itching his internals. He sits where he fell until Jazz catches up, helps him up, and helps with his balance. “How much farther?” he asks, after long deliberation.

“Not much.” Jazz makes a listless laugh-like noise. “But also, too fraggin’ far.”

“Grhhg,” Prowl agrees, and the conversation degrades from there.

-

Until, _eventually_ , Jazz perks up (nearly tipping Prowl out of their precariously balanced shambling formation). “Huzzah,” he says weakly. 

Prowl follows where he is looking, sees a distant pile of rocks, realizes that Jazz is being too lazy to look where he is listening, and nudges him pointedly.

Jazz nods at an alley, and Prowl straightens enough to squint towards it and spread a sensor wing. 

The patrollers in the alley (proper interception 53%, miscellaneous chaos 47%) recognize being recognized and choose to erupt into revving and surrounding maneuvers, one coming in front, one cutting for the side (both _loud_ ).

Prowl draws his wing back in, both a slump of relief and a wince of noise sensitivity.

Jazz raises a hand to wave.

Ironhide (scuffed, dusty, running high energy) transforms to root in front of them. “Frag, but color me impressed! Alive, intact, ‘n everything. Can’t forget the pursuit background, eh?” He laughs, remaining bristled and assertive and _loud_. “This looks like a _wild_ recap,” he says, which is off, in a way that Prowl cannot identify until Ironhide steps to a better angle and points his gun at Jazz. “You step away from Prowl now, Con.”

Jazz goes still. Prowl goes still. They are both still. 

“...Prowl, dearest,” Jazz says softly, shifting Prowl’s weight to free his other hand so he can raise it as well. “How much you been keeping folks up on the whats and whys of me out here?”

Jazz is capable of turning obscurity into potent strategic advantage, and Prowl did not want to squander that. Details on Jazz are need-to-know only. (It was a rapid decision.) (He was distracted.) “Minimally,” Prowl mutters. He grabs onto Jazz when Jazz moves to obey Ironhide. “I will fall,” he tells Ironhide (and... Beachcomber, behind).

Beachcomber then rushes in to hover by Prowl for medical assistance. “Don’t worry, sir, we’ve got you. We’ll take care of everything.”

Prowl makes a quiet, sustained, low whistle of exhausted annoyance, swaying on his pedes as Jazz steps away and carefully towards the spot Ironhide indicates. “Stay _calm_ ,” Prowl commands absolutely everyone. “It’s Jazz.”

Beachcomber falters, (wisely) unwilling to grab Prowl when Prowl does not take his offered support. “Yeah. It’s...” He looks at Ironhide. “The Con defector who broke probation and ran off? And is now turning up with you looking, um, not so good?”

Jazz looks up from where he is kneeling and winks at Beachcomber, motion interrupted as Ironhide yanks his arms back to cuff him tightly.

“A lot has happened,” Prowl says. He forces his whistle mute. A wave of dizziness hits and he is forced to lean on Beachcomber. Prowl hears a giggle, and shoots Jazz a severe look. “Be _polite_. Everyone. Please.”

“Huh.” Ironhide (responsibly) does not entirely look away from Jazz. “Welcome back to Bot custody,” he growls.

“Aw, thanks, mech,” Jazz says, still _frelling giggling._

**Author's Note:**

> updates every other saturdayish


End file.
